


carnal/cardinal

by lavish (valerian)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Creampie, Cunnilingus, Dry Humping, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Force Visions, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn With Plot, Rimming, Shameless Smut, Spanking, don't lie you're here for the sex, just tagging this whole thing with all the dirty shit, my kink is free indirect discourse and stream of consciousness narration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-16 04:25:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5814037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valerian/pseuds/lavish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You have mastered the fight. Now you will learn the fuck."</p><p>(When Snoke had called for Kylo Ren to complete his training, this is not what he had been expecting, at all.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. pride/foreplay

**CARNAL**

1 a : relating to or given to crude bodily pleasures and appetites 

1 b : marked by sexuality < _carnal_ love >

**CARDINAL**

1 : of basic importance <a _cardinal_ principle >

2 : very serious or grave <a  _cardinal_ sin >

 

**PRIDE**

1 :  the quality or state of being proud as

a : inordinate self-esteem : conceit

b : delight or elation arising from some act, possession, or relationship

**FOREPLAY**

1 : erotic simulation preceding sexual intercourse

2 : action or behavior that precedes an event

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s weeks after the destruction of Starkiller Base, and Supreme Leader Snoke is still angry. As he should be. The planet had been a weapon after all, into which the Order had invested money, power, and the high, high hopes of dominating the universe through sheer force of will. Through violence.

(A rookie mistake.)

Kylo Ren is angry too, of course, but in the aftermath of his encounter with the scavenger girl ( _Rey_ , a tidbit he’d snatched from her mind), he is not himself, and it shows in the new way he displays his anger.

It shows in his utter control.

A useful skill, this whole control thing. A powerful tool, one his grandfather had mastered; one his old Uncle Luke, that pathetic excuse for a Jedi, had also wielded—and to great effect. As control makes one strong, and Kylo Ren desires strength, more strength. (Ben Solo had needed it, and he’d gotten it, with his father’s death. But let’s not talk about that...)  

So, anyway. This control thing. It reigns Kylo’s temper in, for once in his life. It allows him to meditate rather than lash out, lightsaber drawn, furniture battered, walls scarred. It’s convenient as well, this control, as Snoke has caged him like he were an animal, and whipping one’s lightsaber out in a righteous fury while locked in a nine by nine cell is hardly conducive to one’s good health.

Besides, this is a lesson Snoke’s putting him through—of this Kylo is sure. The Supreme Leader, in all his wisdom and prophecy, would never do something for nothing. Yes, yes, of that he is certain, 110% certain; there’s a lesson to be learned at being trapped behind bars (well, a sealed door, as bars can be bent) for one day, two days, three days, thirteen. This is no punishment, as he’s being fed, one masked, fellow Knight or another pushing a plate through a small slit in the wall every six hours or so. On day fourteen, Snoke whispers (carves) into his mind that _this is the last part of your training. The vestiges. Have you reflected on your failures long enough?_

Kylo exhales slowly. Inhales slower. _I have. I have learned control._

_ Pride is a petty thing, boy. Cease it. You have learned nothing. _

Kylo would beg to differ, though his clenching fists prove his master’s point. He exhales again. _Yes, Supreme Leader._

A beat. _Still. What semblance of self-control you’ve learned will be useful for what I’m to teach you next._

Kylo can feel his pulse pick up speed. _A further lesson, Master?_

_ Of course. You will complete your training. _

The door to his cell hisses open. Kylo doesn’t stand immediately.

_ And the girl—? _

_ She is central to it. Come. _

There is no denying Supreme Leader Snoke’s orders, nor the way he tugs on Kylo’s consciousness, like a rusted hook, painful, prone to infecting the weak, which he is _not_ (not anymore, thank you very much).

(But let’s not talk about that.)

 

In Snoke’s chambers, kneeling at his master’s feet, he is delivered a beatdown. Not a physical one, mind you; the Supreme Leader is above such trifles.

The pain he inflicts is much more subtle, much less direct. He issues blows in the form of words, sentences crafted from the insecurities he’s gathered from Kylo’s most shameful, deeply buried thoughts, and Kylo can feel the verbal whiplash on his back, his front, his _ego_ until it’s raw. And bleeding.

“A girl bested you. A scavenger. Untrained, from nowhere.”

Kylo winces, his pride raising its defenses. He can’t help himself as words spill from his mouth, that “she was strong in the Force and gathered it around herself in battle. It had—”

“My apprentice falling to junkyard scum.”

He keeps quiet this time, head bowed. He knows it’s uncouth to be vain, but he hates to be reprimanded now as much as he had hated it in his youth.

“At least you saw to your father’s death. A useful act at the time, but now, I can’t be sure. Perhaps it was useless after all.”

Something flares inside Kylo, something of two temperatures: hot, like resentment, cold, like regret. He swallows. His voice is barely audible. “...What do you mean?”

“The girl. You feel compassion for her.”

Again with this accusation, one he’s heard before and a line of thinking he can’t follow at all. “Supreme Leader. You are mistaken. I do not feel compassion for her—”

“Passion, then. Not compassion.” Snoke forces his way into Kylo’s mind, deep, deeper, deepest, and it stings, it burns, it sears from the pressure of something well-buried (or not so well-buried, really) being dragged to the surface.

A face. A mane of hair. Twin eyes, dark, and lips curled, defiant.

_What is all this?_ Master Snoke’s voice is loud in his head.

“She means nothing. A curiosity,” he breathes, leveling his eyes on his master’s twisted face.

_The fact that you’ve hidden her from me tells me more than your words do._ He thumbs through more of the thought, tugs on the thread and unravels the spool. Kylo has never felt more shame than now, dropping his gaze again and bowing as the scavenger’s face appears, then morphs somehow, changed—by _bliss_ , yes, by _bliss_ , all consuming as a tongue parts her lips, hands through hair, moan for moan, pleasure for pleasure—

“A curiosity,” Kylo says again. “Boredom. The cell. It was entertainment in the...endless hours of—nothing.”

“Are you complaining about my teaching methods?” Snoke roars. The sound rings in Kylo’s ears. “Or are you suggesting I put you back in there, so you can wade further into this wet dream of yours?” A smirk appears on his wizened face, and it’s so bizarre.

Kylo’s stomach clenches, and his face burns red. He wishes he had his mask on, but it was lost on the bridge, along with—

“I apologize,” he says eventually, quietly. “To think of vermin like that. It is beneath me.”

His master surprises him then by laughing. Laughing. Kylo stares unblinking at the hem of his master’s robes until the sound passes, so blood curdling a noise it had been.

“Stand, pupil. And heed my orders.”

Kylo scrambles to his feet on sea legs; this is how violated he feels. “Yes, Supreme Leader?”

“There is a reason the Dark calls to you. And there is a reason the Light does too. You were born into the latter, but you. You chose the Dark. You chose to embrace that which makes you Dark. And you know what it is, what Darkness is.”

“Yes.”

“It is the opposite of passivity. It is action, and only in action can you nourish aggression.”

Kylo knows this. He’s heard this spiel so many times he’s got the lines memorized. He could recite them word for word.

“You think you are above this lesson then?” Snoke smirks again. “Let me add to it: aggression and passion go hand in hand. There is not one without the other. And this passion you feel for the girl? Use it.”

The last two words boomerang around Snoke’s cavernous chamber. _Use it, use it..._

“I will.”

“No you won’t, as you still don’t get it,” Snoke snaps. “Listen again and carefully: harness your passion for the girl. Harness it in a way only the Dark can. As a weapon. As a tool.”

Kylo inhales sharply. He’s still not sure what his master means, the vision his words conjuring hazy at best. Surely he’s not suggesting that he, that he, _that he_ —

_ You are a human male, the most lusty race to have ever traversed the stars. _ Of course _that is what I mean. _

_ To seduce her…? _

_Your words, not mine. But, in essence, yes._ Flashes of imagery, now, relentless against his frontal lobe: her gasping, hands clenching, hair wound ‘round pale fingers, ragged breathing, then screaming.

_ Master, this is—obscene— _

Penetration, the idea of wetness. Kylo can feel arousal prickle his consciousness. He hates it so, hates how easily he succumbs to a mere suggestion…

The images relent. In their wake, he feels hollow and hungry. He does not look once at Snoke.

_ She is strong, apprentice. We must take her while she’s at the start of her training. She will be susceptible. Ravenous. That is...if you know how to use your facilities. _

One more blow to his ego and Kylo thinks it might shatter all together. Because surely, _surely_ his master knows that this task is...impossible. And—and beneath him. Why should _Kylo Ren_ , master of the Knights of Ren, one of the most powerful force-users in the universe expend time and energy seducing a fledgling girl, in the most literal sense? He could kidnap her. He could break her. But this... _This_.

This is a punishment. For failing to retrieve the droid, then failing to retrieve the map.

Failing to retrieve the girl.

_ You will bring her to me. This is the last time I will command this of you. _

His master is smirking again when Kylo looks up, promises through gritted teeth that “I will not fail you this time, Supreme Leader. I will bring her into our fold, in the way you wish.”

_Very well._ A long pause follows, and Kylo wonders why he’s not yet dismissed—until it hits him, the hunger that had only just died down flaring up, like a flame licking at air, so intense a craving, so humiliating—

_ You wonder why I’m asking this of you. And I shall explain. _

Such a tightening in his groin. Kylo groans, anguished.

_ This is the Force at its most elemental. To reach it, draw from your basest instincts. Turn animal. Cut your fragile tether to humanity. _

He is doubled over, hands grasping at the floor and finding no purchase. “Yes, Master…”

_ You have conquered the fight. Now you will learn the fuck. Believe me when I say these are the two oldest instincts we have. Every creature in this universe knows them, and there is little difference between the two. Crucial to any being of power is striking the balance between fight and fuck... _

The way Snoke rasps “fuck” with the f sound drawn out ( _fffffffffffffuck_ ) is a douse of cold water to Kylo’s flame/desire, as he stutters, “Y-Yes…of c-course...”

_But be wary._ Snoke sits back in his throne. _Do not equate carnality with love._

“I...understand…”

_ Do you? _

The desire is drenched completely. Kylo collapses onto the floor and presses his fevered skin against the cool marble, imprinting a rather large patch of sweat. “...I will not fail you.”

“You are dismissed.”

* * *

 

“You are dismissed.”

Sweeter words Rey has never heard. For as kind a face as Master Luke has, he sure is a hard ass.

Take today for instance. It had started with running, always running. First up these seven hundred steps, then later down that impossibly rocky hillside.

“You’ll be hurtling down cliffs eventually,” Master Luke says in response to her struggling to breathe. “This is hardly anything, Rey.”

She takes it all in without complaint, of course, only ever a nod and an attempt at a (very tired) smile. “I know. I—know. Just need...to get used to...all this running…”

Then it’s forms for an hour and a half. Form I she masters in a few days, her muscles going through the motions as if she’s learned them somewhere before. More advanced ones, however, have her stumbling occasionally, clumsily, as Master Luke surveys her, prods her in the back or behind the knee with a stick.

“Your core is unstable.” He pokes her in the shoulder blade, and she pitches forward, wincing, her hands tight around the hilt of her lightsaber. “Meditate. On your head.”

So it’s headstands for half an hour. Which is painful at first, what with all the blood rushing to places blood probably should not rush...but Rey takes it all. She endures it all. Of course she does. Of course.

Because this is, someway, somehow, her destiny—one she’s beginning to accept as inevitable.

Because she is being trained by Luke Skywalker, of all people: the man, the myth, the legend.

And because she must be strong. So when she faces off against Kylo Ren again (oh, will she ever), she can end his reign of terror once and for all—a sentiment she had vowed to herself at Han Solo's empty casket funeral, the only thing she had promised before she left for Ahch-To.

 

On this particular day, however, as the sun preens above in a rare display of vanity, strength is far from her mind. As is destiny and legend; following her dismissal and blotting sweat from her forehead, Rey has only one thing she wants to do. _Needs_ to do—

Bathe.

Then, if there’s time before evening drills, nap.

Because her body is so _hot_ , overheating even. She had felt it all throughout Form II, the way blood had flushed her cheeks, the way exhaustion had crawled up her spine. She had thought herself over the pain of breaking into training, but the soreness had found its way back with the heat.  

So when she seeks her favorite bathing spot (a crystalline blue pool ensconced in a cave, discovered on her third day of exploring the island), she sinks into the water, practically drowns in it. She even undoes her buns for once, allowing the taut skin of her scalp to relax, the long locks of her hair to float about in a sodden halo.

_This is bliss_ , she thinks. This is how the Force should find her and vice versa, always: the only audible sound the slow drip, drip, dripping of water down from the stalactite, into the pool.

The only thing missing? An ability to swim. She’s attempted the breaststroke a bit, but every time, halfway through, her legs stiffen up and her hands scramble for rock, as if her body just cannot believe that she is _swimming_. In a pool. It’s just too good to be true. It’s a dream. And a lusty one at that.

For what greater luxury is there in the universe than this? Being surrounded by water, clean, save for a hint of salt. The salt of the ocean.

The ocean.

For a desert rat, what better reality is there?

(And if it exists, how can she reach it?)

_ So many questions…. _

A voice, quiet and distant, ripples across the water. Rey chalks it up to the Force. It has a habit of speaking to her, after all, if you count fragmented whispers dreamt up in a fever haze “speaking.”

_ Power...you crave it… _

The Force is chatty today. Rey blinks her drowsy eyes, leans back against the smooth patch of caverock that also serves as a bench.

_I am happy. I crave nothing._

No response.  

...Not that she had been expecting one. She stares at the rays of sunlight that have squeezed between the cracks in the cave’s ceiling. At the point they meet the water, they turn into sparkles; diamonds.

_ Rey… _

She is enchanted, yes, that’s what this is. She is enchanted by this unbelievable scene, this unimaginable beauty, and her body, cooled, is now heating up again.

But from the inside out. The sun is playing no part in this. The sun is over there, after all, in the sparkles, in the diamonds. She’s far removed and sitting in the shadows...yet she’s so hot, so _hot_ , so... _needing_ , all of a sudden. As if someone’s ignited a fire in her belly (but if her belly were lower, in her navel—and even lower than that—)

She hauls herself out of the water. There is a small patch of sand, a tiny beach of sorts, right there in the cave, where she’s laid her boots. Her clothes she’d placed on a rock, along with a towel, which she picks up. Spreads upon the soft sand. Spreads _herself_ upon.

The water streaming from Rey’s naked body feeds her towel. And Rey, hot and enchanted, decides to feed herself.

Which she hasn’t done in a while, mind you. The whole running-for-her-life thing that she’s had to endure in the past month has not been conducive to her self-pleasure. Nor has training day in and day out with Master Luke.

But Master Luke is busy this afternoon—through the tendrils of the Force, so strong in this cave, she can sense his presence milling about some distance away, most likely at the Temple and ugh, ugh, _ugh, no, ack!_ No thinking about Master Luke right now. Not of his wrinkles.

No, no, _no._

Think only of here, being alone in this shadowy haven.

Think only of the water lapping gently against itself.

Think only of exploring your body. Fingertips grazing your still wet skin. Trailing, now, trailing down your chest.

Rey feels her pink nipples harden by a sudden gush of wind through the cave. It’s so nice, so nice. She bites her bottom lip, teeth nibbling at the cracked skin there, as she drags her fingers lower, down her abdomen, then lower, lower into a thatch of curls, to another pair of warm lips, which she spreads easily with two fingers...

_ Rey... _

Hearing that voice breathe her name, she feels almost guilty, as if the Force is listening in on her indulgence, as if she is not alone. But this guilt, the idea she’s being watched only makes the sensation better as she slides a third finger between her wet folds—her extremely wet folds, my, _oh my_ , who could have thought she’d miss this sensation so? That she could be this aroused?

Her mind flutters to the fantasies she’d reserved for herself on Jakku, on those lonely, _so lonely_ nights: a faceless figure with a body more muscled than hers, larger than hers, and so toned; he was always gentle, too. Never grabbed at her, only caressed. Never pulled anything, only stroked...stroke, stroking, as she is doing now, finger on her clit, that little nub of nerves that sets her body on slowburn.

Which works itself into a fastburn when she allows herself to assign a face to the fantasy. A handsome face, one that comes immediately, shamefully.

The face of a certain Resistance pilot, one she’d only talked to a couple of times before she’d left the base.

But no matter. She presses herself into her hand at the idea of stroking all that silken hair, the idea of those dark, long (unfairly long) eyelashes fluttering against her inner thigh.

“Ah…” Her fantasy version of Poe Dameron sets fire to her lust. It builds in her, it’s building, she’s climbing that impossible cliff that is orgasm and it’s barely been two minutes, so ready is she to burst, _ah_ , she only needs to rub faster, a little faster, dark lashes, dark hair, dark eyes, a low, deep, guttural groan —a thick, weeping cock sheathing itself suddenly in her small body, a man with a pale face sucking on her tits as he thrusts and he whispers, raggedly, “ _Rey_ —”

She comes right then, right there, like that. Her toes curling, her back arches entirely off her towel. Her moan bounces filthily around the cave and over the water—she’d be panicked someone had heard her if not for the other panic that’s already taken root in her mind:

The panic that she’d just come to the very vivid fantasy of her mortal enemy coming _in_ _her_. And here, even in the aftermath of her orgasm, as her body ripples with residual pleasure, she’s still got a finger on her clit, rubbing slowly, slowly to the idea of Kylo Ren looming over her in this cave, watching his own seed drip, drip, drip slowly from her pussy and onto the towel beneath.

_ Rey… _

She imagines him stemming the flow with two fingers, then bringing those fingers to his mouth to taste himself. A pink tongue laving. A drop of cum rolling down his knuckles.

She can't help herself. She comes again. 

 

 


	2. excitement/greed

**EXCITEMENT**

1 : something that excites or rouses

2 : the first stage of the human sexual response cycle, occurring as a result of physical or mental erotic stimuli that leads to sexual arousal, as the body prepares for sexual intercourse

 

**GREED**

1 : a selfish and excessive desire for more of something than is needed

 

 

* * *

 

 

Shame.

There is no other way to put it. How she feels. 

 _What_ she feels in the aftermath, in the afterglow. Just…total, complete, and utter, utter, disgusting, filthy _shame._

“Fuck…” she breathes out, stares upward and unseeing at the cave ceiling. The Force (or whatever the hell it was) has stopped whispering to her. It’s just quiet again, the only sounds the drip, drip, dripping in the background, and face burning, she thinks on how she’s a pervert now, isn’t she? A bad person through and through…to think of _him_ with such—enthusiasm. Passion.

To think of him at all.

(And then exploding? _To him?)_

She’d much rather throw herself into the pool and let herself sink to the bottom and forget ever learning to swim; _she’d rather_ _drown_ than do this again.

(The idea of him licking his own cum off his fingers—)

No.

No.

 _Stop_ , Rey.

She sits up, dazed, limbs sluggish. Her sex throbs weakly against her damp towel, before she wades back into the pool to cleanse herself (her tainted soul, for goodness’ sake), and in the water she is woozy with the fear of this awful _…_ well, for lack of a better term, _awakening._

The Awakening of a Pervert.

(That should be a name of a holothriller, starring _Rey!_ Student of Luke Skywalker, Ever Patient Girl From Jakku, and Pervert Extraordinaire!)

Rubbing (and not in _that way,_ you apprentice perv)—really _rubbing_ at her skin until she feels raw, the sweat and dirt from her body floating in particles about the pristine water, Rey tries to reassure herself that this is…this is normal, right? Surely—surely whatever fantasies her mind conjures up are not reflections of her inner desires, no. No. They are just…temporary flings with insanity. She’s had those before, after all, the forbidden, nighttime, dream dalliances with strangers of a certain appeal: rugged and bearded, yes, like the men depicted in the holograms that looped on the holopads she’d scavenged from a number of downed cruisers. The vids were often static-y but identifiable; they depicted the male anatomy in action, fitted with the female anatomy in places she had never thought parts _could_ fit…everything tight and swollen (she had wondered if it ever hurt to do those things, as the vid-actors always had this pained look about their faces)…

She blushes thinking of how naive she’d been then, finding those vids. She’d been so pure. Uninitiated into the world of base need.

Until now.

 _Full-blown_ _perv._

(And no, that was not the Force whispering to her. It was a note to herself: that maybe, just maybe, if she were to try this whole thing again sometime in the distant, distant, extra, super distant future, her fantasies would be _normal_ , yes, back to rugged and bearded and she wouldn’t be doing anything to herself while drowsy or enchanted, and Kylo Ren doesn’t even _have_ a beard, though that body of his and the musk-ridden scent of sweat she’d whiffed as he’d hovered above her, before he’d entered her—)

Rey leaves the water. She doesn’t towel off, preferring to squeegee the moisture from her skin with bare hands, preferring to struggle into her clothing damp and all. She doesn’t really even touch the towel save for dunking it briefly into the pool, then holding it away from her body for the trek back.

As this is a soiled towel, now. 

It’s got _her_ on it.

…And the imagined essence of _him._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Hey, remember control?

Remember when Kylo had learned it in all of fourteen days? Locked in a cell, forced to meditate on his failures as a man, as a Knight of Ren, as an eternal servant to the Dark?

Well. Weeellllllllllp.

It’s gone now.

Control is gone.

And fuck if he cares, lying on his bed, his throbbing cock in his hand, his hand jerking said cock to a fantasy of She Who Started This Whole Damn Thing.

 _Rey_ …

It’s _wrong_ to do this (isn’t it?), to imagine the scavenger on her knees as he fucks into her, pulls out almost entirely before fucking right back in.

But _damn_. Damn if it doesn’t feel _right_. All of it. It just feels _right_ to…to…

To think of her tongue on his weeping cockhead, lapping at the precum beading there, like some sort of dog: his pet.

To think of his own tongue tracing the edge of her labia, lapping at the wetness there, like some sort of thirsty man. Which he is.

He jerks himself harder to the thought of her coming, small hands pulling at his hair as he eats her out and right through her orgasm.

“Stop,” she begs. _Too sensitive…_

He smiles against her. Licks his lips. “I know.”

And as he slows his licking, he quickens again the hand on his cock—spilling only to the final image in his fantasy.

That of pressing his Rey-coated lips against Rey’s lips (and yes, he means the ones attached to her face).

 

 

 

Panting slowly, sated in his afterglow, Kylo stares up at the ceiling of his bedchamber. Like the sparse furnishings of his room and the color of his walls, his ceiling is dark, save for a single band of light inlaid in stone.

Closing his eyes, he traces a long finger through the rivulets of cum on his bare torso. Snoke had wanted him to seduce the girl, and every seduction required planning. So his self-satisfaction just now: that surely counted as planning.

Sort of. Kind of.

Right?

Kylo reaches for a tissue to wipe himself off, his thoughts drifting instead to the _how_ of it all. The _how_ of the scavenger infiltrating his mind, inserting herself into every wicked fantasy he’s entertained these last couple of weeks. She’s even managed to replace his one, go-to fantasy; the one he has harbored for years and years and _years._

The fantasy of Kira, his dream girl once upon a time, when he still had time to dream about girls, about potential futures with a female by his side. A wife.

(For he’d seen how—how his mother had so loved his father; how his father had glowed and become heroic around his mother, ma, _mom—_ )

Kylo clenches his fists. His thoughts dart quickly to being a youngling of eight or nine and meeting _her_ ; she had been twelve. Her skills as a Padawan hadn’t impressed him, though her posture, both defensive and offensive, was excellent. _An example_ , Uncle Luke had said, _for the rest of you to follow_.

As Kylo learned to imitate that posture, the elegant rigidity of it, the power of standing up and looking down your nose, his crush grew. It was a silly little thing, a distraction from the voices he’d hear when he was alone, the ones that crept up his spine and gnawed at his brain (the dark, the dark, a  _legacy_ , my child). Kira, and the thought of the sun casting a halo on her long, red-gold hair, had been his one relief from all that.

As they grew older, he took notice of all the things that made her tick. He noticed that she hated getting her hands dirty, that she preferred to wipe sweat from her brow with her left sleeve before her right. He noticed that she only ever smiled when she was with her best friend, a fellow Padawan with a round face; that she never finished all the food on her plate at dinner.

He noticed that she was the only student under Luke’s tutelage who matched him in height. ‘Cause even as an eleven year old, he was tall and lanky and awkward. She was fourteen, and though tall, her figure had begun to swell to that of a woman’s.

On his twelfth birthday, he found it in himself to stand next to her in the sparring line. She had taken one look at him, the only expression to cross her face that of disdain, and said, very simply, “Go away, Ben.”

Even now, it still stings him to think of her rejection. But funny how memory works: by rejecting him, she is remembered by him. All these years later.

He remembers her in many a woman he’s met. He remembers her in their curves, in their sultry gazes, in the loose waves of their hair.

And always, _always_ when he meets these women who are not quite Kira, there is a tiny part of him that _hates_ them and _wants_ them in equal measure. Wants to bring them to their knees.

Wants to give them pleasure.

His thoughts dance to the scavenger girl again (again with her, _Rey)_ , and he wonders idly on how different she is from Kira. Kira had been all tits and an ass like buried treasure. But Rey? He hadn’t gotten too good a look, unfortunately (he’d been too busy trying to pry that damn map from her mind, and then there’d been that _other_ thing, on the bridge—), but from what he had seen, Rey hadn’t had much of anything by way of tits and ass.

She’d been scrawny, freckled, and tanned. A child of starvation, likely. Small wonder she’s not skin and bones.

And maybe his standards are slipping. But no matter. He wants her nonetheless: _Rey…_ He licks his lips thinking of her, her raw power, all that he can hone…yes, yes, with proper guidance, she could be everything and anything he needs her to be—and she would be one hundred times stronger than Kira could ever hope to be.

(Particularly true now since Kira is dead. Kylo hadn’t been the one to deliver the killing blow all those years ago…though he _had_ seen her body, slumped in the rain. So beautiful, even in death. Her red-gold hair, the streak of blood down her cheek: it’s one of the few memories he can still conjure from that night, one of the few memories he’s got that truly makes him sick.)

… _Moping?_

Kylo grimaces. The sudden and loud intrusion is Snoke.

_Who else would it be, apprentice?_

_Supreme Leader…_ He sits up in bed. He sets both feet on the floor. _You are summoning me—?_

_Relax. I am merely informing you that the literature you will need for your final lesson will be delivered shortly._

And by “shortly,” Snoke means immediately. There’s a knock on Kylo’s door, which he opens by way of the Force. A small stack of scrolls sits on the ground, a single one rolling loose and across the threshold.

_They are recorded entirely in the Old Tongue._

Kylo stands and walks to his new pile of reading material. He picks one up. _I had expected nothing less for such a…time-honored technique._

Snoke’s snarl is audible, even in his head _. Was that a jest, apprentice?_

 _No_. Kylo massages the space between his eyes. His head is beginning to pound. _An honest comment, Supreme Leader._

_It had better be. And the technique had better be mastered soon. Should you need them, you will find willing targets among your knights. I have already informed them of your…mission._

Kylo can feel a blush coming on, tinting his cheeks (fuckin’ embarrassing). _Right._

_Speaking of embarrassment, you might want to rethink the value of your master catching you awash in such...sentimentality._

And with that, Snoke leaves his brain, and Kylo can breathe properly again.

Breathing in.

Breathing out.

He shuts his door with unnecessary force, tosses the scrolls onto his bed.

 _I do not resent my teacher…_ Oh no, not the invasions of privacy, the omnipresence he has had to endure his whole life, oh no, oh no.

He welcomes it, yes, he welcomes it. As he has. All. These. Years.

Growling, and overcome by a sudden need to destroy something please, _please_ , Kylo decides to take a dip in the Force, mmhmm, a dip in the Force to cool his raging mind.

He settles himself on the floor, his back against the wall. It’s so cold it’s perfect.

He closes his eyes and inhales. He envisions the Force, and instantly he is connected to it, to that sea of power, that sea of Force _threads_ , tautly pulled like strings on a harp and stretched across planets, stars, galaxies, _everything_. The threads rub roughly against each other, jostling for attention.

As if to a harp's strings, he could strum any thread he liked.

He could pluck any one. And the power would be his.

Tonight, however, he senses a disturbance in the Force. The black threads quiver and quiver. He digs beneath them, between them, and among the waves of black, he finds a red thread. It shuffles above and below the others.

He concentrates.

He grabs hold of it.

He lets it guide him, this red amid the black, like a blood moon at midnight.

It leads him. Pulls him across planets, stars, systems, everything and _anything_  that is a reminder he is alive and straight to—

Oh.

_Oh._

How delicious.

He is seeing himself, now, in somebody else’s head.

He wonders who—who remaining in this universe could possibly be so preoccupied with him? His mother? His uncle?

And then he doesn’t have to wonder anymore, because the answer arrives quickly, in the form of a hazy, dreamy apparition that materializes before him.

_Rey._

Her eyes are the only part of her body that is not cloudy and vague. They are hot, instead, clearly needing, her pupils blown wide and wild. 

Interesting.

Even more interesting is when she walks toward him and begins to touch him. His whole (and as he suddenly realizes) naked body.

She starts by running her small palm across his chest.

As her hand passes over his nipples, she is hit with curiosity. Kylo can feel the emotion light years away; he can hear her ask, how would his nipples feel between her lips?

And she’s a bit of a daredevil, Rey is; what she’s curious about, she explores. Thoroughly.

(And, just like that, a flame of desire ignites in Kylo Ren for the second time that night. Only this…this time the desire is not a product of memory. It's a product of the Force.)

Which means--

Damn. Fuck. What this is—could this be—?

Surely not. Surely not.

But.

Maybe.

 _…Scavenger?_ he thinks at Rey on the other end. _My_ _sweet_ , _scavenger scum._

 _Ahh…_ A sigh, then, disproportionately pleased at the sound of his insults. She obviously doesn’t know it’s really him.

She must be dreaming then.

How fun.

He presses on. 

 _You like it when I call you scum?_  he asks. _Dirty? Filthy, filthy girl?_

 _Yes…_ The moan is so breathy, and it sounds so much like the _real her_ that he’s certain now, oh is he certain: there is a bond. There is a _bond_.

And he’s going to use it for his mission. Obviously.

But for now?

He’s going to use it for himself.

 _Touch yourself,_ he commands in the fantasy, while in his room he slips his hand to his hardening cock. _Your cunt. So wet for me._

 _Yeah…_ He can sense her pleasure, mounting in time with his.

He starts to stroke himself, his hand slightly damp with precum. _I taste you with my tongue._ He gnaws his bottom lip. _Do you like that?_

 _Yessssss,_ like a hiss. Kylo thinks he might come quite soon.

 _Your turn_ , he manages, mouth falling open for a groan.

_I—don’t know what to say—_

_Show me._

She does. And she does it so quickly that he wonders if she’s really dreaming after all—

Rey on all fours above him. Only, it is not her face that is level with him, oh no. Not her face.

Her face is by the throbbing length of him. She dips her head and slips her tongue out. She licks his shaft experimentally, coating saliva onto his cock.

He sighs. He’s not going to make it. If she puts him in her mouth and yeah, yup, she’s putting him in her mouth, he’s gonna come to the feel of her hot and wet, the sound of her gagging as she tries to take him entirely, the head of his cock hitting the back of her throat—

Kylo explodes in his hand, his cum streaming between his long fingers. He can hear a soft whine from the other side. Rey is unsatisfied, though she’s close, a finger working furiously at her clit.

 _Please…_ She wants him to speak again, to say all those dirty, dirty things to her, this dirty, dirty girl of his…

But Kylo Ren is cruel, and he’s already had his fun. Sagging against the wall, he stays silent and watching as she slips two fingers into herself and climbs and climbs and climbs.

It is only right before her peak that he tells her to _fuck me_.

And with a moan she unravels.

And she falls.

(Too easy.)

 

 


	3. envy/plateau (un)

The boy does it. Creates the bond.

Snoke had thought it’d take longer (his apprentice hadn’t had to read a single scroll to make it happen), but time and time again, it’s been proven to be foolproof:

Basic human need conquers all.

And all is going according to plan.

 

 

* * *

 

**ENVY**

1 : painful or resentful awareness of an advantage enjoyed by another joined with a desire to possess the same advantage

2 _obsolete_ : malice

 

**PLATEAU**

1 : a level of attainment or achievement <the 500-point _plateau >_

2 : the second phase of the human sexual response cycle : the period of sexual excitement prior to orgasm, characterized by increased circulation and heart rate in both sexes; increased sexual pleasure with increased stimulation; and respiration rising to an elevated level

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Rey finds herself injured, really _injured,_ for the first time in a long time, she knows it’s her own damn fault.

Or, in other words, this is what you get for attempting a force jump without Master Luke’s guidance. But hey, don’t look at her like that.

She knows. She _knows._

She _knows_ she shouldn’t have underestimated the distance between the two moss-covered rocks. She _knows_ she shouldn’t have presumed that if she _were_ to slip on said rocks the moss would protect her. Because moss is soft, right? Moss should adequately disguise sharp edges.

But sharp edges will be sharp edges, regardless of how much green they’ve got.

There are constants in this universe, after all—and this is how Rey cuts her leg.

She tries not to think too much of it when rock meets skin, violently. The wound ends up a bit jagged, too, plenty ugly, but not _that_ deep. And besides, she’s known jagged and ugly. It had been ever present in her youth; in her hunger, in her starvation.

In her being alone.

But she’s got Master Luke now, and when he asks her if she’s okay, if she’s _really_ okay, she can’t help but smile, wide and goofy and through the pain, as she reassures him that “yes, I am, thank you. I cleaned it out. Bandaged it too. I’m fine, really.”

Because she is. Having someone who cares this deeply about her, about some little cut? It’s the definition of fine, alright, and she thinks she can get used to this feeling.

But, well, what she _can’t_ get used to is the dizziness that hits her later that night. It hits her _hard_ , an influx of incoherence as she meditates, legs outstretched by the fire. For a confused moment she thinks it might be the Force that’s tilting her world on its axis, the fire that’s fanning the sudden flaming of her cheeks, her forehead burning up, the parched throat, and the inability to think…thoughts…?

But no, no. That can’t be the Force.

Not the Force she knows.

The Force she knows calms her, soothes.

This thing that she’s feeling is too intense, too much like fever—one Master Luke treats with a grimace.

“I don’t think you cleaned the wound as well as you thought you had,” he says, slathering bacta onto her leg as she lies on her sleeping mat. She thinks on how luxurious bacta, the mere idea of it, had been back on Jakku.

She thinks on Master Luke’s frown lines, how they might just be beautiful.

“I suppose not.” She offers a weak smile and averts her gaze. “I’ll know better than to use rainwater next time.”

Master Luke bandages her wound again. “This will have to do for now,” he says, when finished. He mops his brow with the back of his sleeve, and Rey is distressed by this action (so vulnerable, for a hero).

“Bacta can only do so much,” he continues. “If it spreads, you’ll need to leave for proper treatment. There’d be no other way. Though I—”

A pause. Rey stares up at his old face. “Yes?”

He shakes his head. “Never mind.”

Then he leaves her alone in her little stone hut, though he had wanted to stay. Of course he had.

But Rey had insisted he go to the Temple tonight, forget her, as the moon is full, tide high. There’ll even be an eclipse (so rare!), and he shouldn’t miss a chance to meditate on such a celestial night, practically an invitation from the Force itself. She only wishes she could be there, Master, just go.

“It’s only a scratch,” she insists, as if septicemia—a blood infection, uh oh—were no big deal. “I’ll be fine.”

And she is, for the most of part. For bacta works in mysterious ways, strange and wonderful all at once: it replaces the hot throbbing in her leg with a different sort of throbbing altogether (still hot).

(Still hot.)

It starts low, between her thighs (doesn’t it always?), this familiar flaring of desire. She’s not entirely sure why her mind jumps immediately to the fantasy of (ugh, gross, not again) Kylo Ren, but it does, and she fucking lets it do this thing for tonight, for one night only, because she’s just too damn tired to fight it, okay, alright, like damn.

(She’s barely in her own head as it is. How could she possibly hope to change what’s got her charged up and ready to go?)

For Kylo Ren is easy pickings (low-hanging fruit in the Garden of Eden), ripe and ready for consumption. Rey may not be able to explain the _why_ of his face in her fantasy, but _fuck_ , does her hand slipping beneath her blanket, under the band of her panties feel good…

A long nose brushing the back of her neck, a large hand palming her breast.

She twists in his grasp, and she presses her lips to his collarbone. It’s such a fragile part of him, even in this fantasy, and she thinks she’d like to kiss it over and over again, before tonguing the hollow at the base of his throat.

He tastes…salty, a hint of sweat that reminds her of the sea. When she decides to taste his nipples, he groans all low and shit, the lowest sound in the world, so _real_ it’s practically in her ear, _fuck, fuck,_ “Mm…”

(Around her, the Force hums, alive and unafraid.

Rey does not notice.)

She’s too far gone, too far, _too far._ She takes it there herself, listening to the way he calls her “scavenger scum” and loving the alliteration a little too much for her own good.

It jolts something right in her core, right in her clit, to hear the nastiness, the sheer _dirt_ of him saying “ _cunt_ ” in conjunction with “ _touch yourself_ ,” which she does, of course she does, and furiously too, so furious she thinks she might want to die like this, on the brink of orgasm forever and ever and ever, as Kylo Ren commands her to do things, so many things, to show him what she wants now, her turn, her turn, forever—

She willingly supplies the image: a naughty number (69). His lips never touch hers, though, for she hovers over him instead, spending the rest of the fantasy sucking him off, and it feels so real she almost wonders if she’s having some sort of vision again, but the horribly pornographic kind, the kind she could never share with Master Luke (thank the stars he’s far and away).

If he were near, _here,_ he’d be so ashamed to think of her thinking of _him_ , his nephew; her loving the way she’s gagging on said nephew’s thick, veiny dick; her loving the way she can basically _feel_ his cum hit the back of her throat, giving her no option but to swallow…

Then, suddenly, a pressure lifted, as if half of her entire being had just come along with Kylo. The other half, however, is still hungry, still _horny_ —she keeps the finger on her clit working, and she practically begs Kylo for help.

Because completion is more than a parsec away now that he’s quiet, the fantasy a little less crisp now that he’s had his fill. If she weren’t so consumed with herself, she’d wonder why, but she’s busy: busy thrusting two fingers into her pussy. Ah, yes, _yes…_ it’s a relief to fill herself with something as solid as fingers. If she thinks hard enough, she can imagine they belong to him…and this really helps, yes, this is really working for her. She rubs and she thrusts, her hips grinding against the air in time to her movements. As she nears her peak, she can hear a sigh almost, then an intake of air, then a—then a—a _fuck me_ in that deep voice of his—and she comes, of course she does.

For she wants to fuck him.

She wants to fuck him real bad.

(A thought she falls asleep to, her hand resting comfortably under the band of her panties.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

Too easy.

Too easy.

Like the cat that got the cream, Kylo prowls about the fortress the next day quite satisfied, quite satisfied indeed.

‘Cuz all _this_ , with the scavenger, without having to pick up a single scroll?

He’s winning at this seduction thing.

He is winning.

He rewards himself with a quick session in the training arena, dozens of practice dummies lined up in a row. He slashes at one, then pivots, slashes another. He does his favorite battle dance, a fine choreography of moves that result in a third of the dummies set on fire, the rest headless, armless, or both.

“Impressive as always, Ren.” Hux’s voice sounds from somewhere in the viewing stands.

Kylo is annoyed that the general is alive and well, having not perished along with Starkiller, but stabbing a dummy’s torso lets him tolerate the unwelcome attention.

“What?” he snarls.

Hux, for all his flaws, more often than not cuts straight to the chase. Kylo can appreciate that.

“Rumor has it the girl you’re smitten with is likely to be on the move,” he says. “Our spies predict her return to the Ileenium System in a matter of days.”

Kylo can’t believe what he’s hearing. For the bond, _the bond_ —surely, he’d have noticed something last night about her moving.

But, then again, their connection had not been about reconnaissance. It’d been about recreation. A good time.

But no matter, as this is good news. Great, even. “I assume the Supreme Leader knows?”

“Of course.” Hux smirks. “You’re to fetch her and bring her back here.”

Kylo wonders why Snoke isn’t the one telling him this. “I will. Prepare my shuttle.”

“I’m not one of your lackeys, Ren. You can’t command me to prepare your ship for you.”

“Really?” Kylo ignites his lightsaber. “Do you wish to reconsider that thought?”

Hux’s nostrils flare, lips curling unhappily. “…Fine. But let it be known that—“

“Yes?”

“I—forget it.” The general turns on his heels in that perfectly sharp way of his and stomps toward the exit.

Kylo deactivates his lightsaber and pushes a hand through his sweat slicked hair. He kicks at a decapitated dummy’s innocent little head, which bounces some distance away, rolling to a stop at the arena’s enormous stone doors.

He sighs and settles on an obsidian black bench. He should shower before taking off, he thinks, vaguely. A villain is nothing if he smells.

But, before that, just as he can’t stop his narcissism, he can’t stop himself from reaching through the Force and stretching toward the scavenger again. He wants to know, _needs_ to know that she’s thinking about him and what they had done last night, so filthy a fantasy they’d shared.

So perfectly a strike he’d landed across her armor.

 _Rey…_.He calls to her as a lover might—and isn’t that what they kind of are now, sort of?

He senses nothing at the end of the red thread, though. How sad.

He tries again, more forcefully.

_Rey._

And aha! There she is. A tugging and a jerking and a jolting awake.

(She must’ve been asleep.)

 _Who’s that?_ she demands, though Kylo can feel the realization dawning on her that it’s him, oh fuck, oh no. (His voice is, she must admit, rather unforgettable.)

 _Who do you think?_ he asks.

Silence as she brews on this possibility, of him being in her brain. _So invasive,_ she thinks. Then, immediately, _I hate you._

_Have you no manners? That’s not how you’re supposed to greet an old friend._

_We are_ not _friends,_ she roars. Then follows, quieter, with: _How did you get in here?_

 _I don’t know,_ he replies. _And I’m being honest. Can you feel it?_

He can feel her straining into the Force, really reaching for him. She attempts to reconcile her wanting to believe so bad that he’s lying with the truth that he’s being honest, as far as she can tell.

_Damn. Damn it._

_Your mouth is filthy._

He can feel something red and hot swell within her. _Get out of my head,_ she commands. _Or I’ll_ make _you leave._

Kylo wants to laugh at her making a threat, how cute! He lets his amusement flow through their channel, and he can sense her irritation grow. _How will you make me leave? You haven’t even mastered the Force jump._ A blush, from her end. _Did you think I wouldn’t notice…?_

 _I’m too tired to deal with this_ vibrates through her, to him. He smirks and is charmed by her fire, crackling even in her illness. Yes, yes, he can piece it all together now. She’d cut her leg. She’d been infected…

 _Bacta won’t do you any good against infections,_ he tells her. _But a Force healing—that would be effective._

Reluctance, on her end, to believe him. She’s wondering why Master Luke hasn’t mentioned it, and it suddenly occurs to Kylo that _that_ is where she has been, all along. Training.

With his uncle.

(The map, complete, his failures—)

 _You’re not perfect, either_ , she thinks. _And you will never know where I am._

He pushes himself deeper into her consciousness, but this is not exactly a mind probe, not this bond. He can’t flip through her thoughts easily, as if turning page after page of memory; he can only consume what she’s thinking in the now.

Which is bothersome. An annoyance. He tries to tamp the feeling down, however, so she won’t know, _can’t know_ that he’s ready to snap, ready to destroy something, the irritation welling up so deep, so bubbling—

 _You’re insane,_ she mutters. Then, _I’m cutting this off._

A wall. A barrier. She puts it up between them so suddenly he’s caught off guard. For how did she do that? A new Force-user, hardly training for more than three weeks—?

She must be even stronger than he’d expected.

This makes him horny, some way, some how. And he lets her know, against her wall, by bombarding her with memories from last night, their shared shame.

A crack in the stone. He pushes forward with all his lust, poisoning her with his need.

 _Don’t you remember this, Rey?_ he asks over and over. _Don’t you want to do it again?_

 _Never._ She seals the crack, and he’s left in the dark.

He strains again. And again. And again and again and again (much like his cock, straining against the front of his pants), but no dice. She’s blocked him off.

He stands, igniting his saber. He aims it at an armless torso and fires it like a javelin.

How sweet the relief he feels when his lightsaber pierces the dummy right through the heart—or, where the the heart would be if, y’know, it _had_ one.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Fear. Panic.

Panic, panic, and fear.

This is all Rey feels the next day, the one after that strange dream that’d been Kylo Ren fucking her mouth, coming down her throat.

(The one in which she’s _still not better_ , the fever still eating at her brain.)

These feelings only amplify when he reaches out to her, again—violating her thoughts, her utter sense of self.

For he’s _with_ her, now. And _in_ her. And this is no good, no good, no good _at all._

With everything she’s got, she manages to block him out, though. It tires her to put up the wall, as her body’s still not fully healed, and she worries that Master Luke might be right—that she may need help from the world outside.

Master Luke confirms her fears later, setting a damp washcloth on her forehead. “I’ve already contacted the Resistance.”

She can feel tears prickle the corner of her eyes. “I don’t want to go—my training—“

“Will be completed when you get better. For now, I can’t help you.”

Her mind flashes to Kylo Ren, what he’d said about Force healing. Master Luke had never mentioned such a thing before, and he still doesn’t mention it now.

“…Really?” she asks, biting on her cracked, lower lip. “There’s no way…?”

“No.” Master Luke shakes his head, his face weary. “You’ll get better in a hospital room, where it’s clean. Ahch-To may be strong in the Force, but it’s far from sterile.”

“And…” She can’t help herself, the words slipping desperately from her mouth, “you’ll still be here when I come back?”

“Of course, Rey.” He smiles. “You’re my Padawan. I will train you just as—just as _my_ teachers trained me.”

There’s a touch of something in Master Luke’s eyes. Remembrance? Caution? Rey can’t tell in her fever. All she knows is that she doesn’t want to leave him, her guardian for all of three weeks, but she feels that she’s known him for a lifetime…this man, so strong.

This man, like a godfather…

 

 

 

Chewie carries her from her sleeping mat later that afternoon. She watches the sun lower on the horizon as they make their way down the crumbling stone steps, the wookie’s embrace warm and furry, almost familiar.

At the Falcon, docked on the shore, she is greeted, to her great surprise, by General Organa.

The general’s face is lined with equal parts concern and affection, her hands gentle when she strokes Rey’s hair.

“Poor girl…” She directs Chewie to set Rey inside the ship, then fusses over her like a mother hen. Rey has to insist that she's alright, she's _okay_ ; that the general tend to more important things than her, but Leia waves it all off.

"You're important to us, Rey. I even brought along Li-Guan with me, our best medic. But before she takes over, here. Take these.”

General Organa drops two pills into Rey’s open palm. One blue, the other a startling shade of silver.

“For the infection,” she murmurs.

Rey swallows them both in one gulp of water. “…Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” General Organa stares at Rey for a beat, her gaze clear and piercing, before making to leave. “I’ll be back soon. I must talk to my brother, first.”

Rey nods as the medic takes over. Li-Guan has an impossibly kind face, and her touch is all gentleness when she unwraps Rey’s bandages and examines the wound.

“This will need stitches. But only when the infection clears.” Li-Guan pats her knee, and it feels so nice. “For now, rest. It’s the only way to heal.”

Rey doesn’t need the order to fall asleep. She can feel herself get drowsier and drowsier by the second.

(Must be the pills, hard at work.)

 

 

 

When she wakes, she’s lying in a clean hospital bed. The air doesn’t smell like ocean anymore. The decor of the room is sterile, white and bright.

“Are we at the base?” she rasps, her throat dry. Li-Guan is sitting in the corner of the room, watching a show on her holovid.

The medic looks toward the bed and shakes her head. “No, dear. A pit stop.”

Rey frowns. “A pit stop? Where?”

“Cloud City. General Organa is visiting an old friend.”

“Oh.” A sinking in Rey’s stomach. She had hoped they’d be back at the base again, if only so she could check on Finn. She'd missed him every day on Ahch-To, his smile a highpoint in her life—

“Don’t be disappointed, child.” Li-Guan smiles. “Someone’s coming to escort you back to the base.”

Rey’s eyes widen. “Who?” 

Li-Guan doesn’t need to answer. Commander Dameron bursts through the door then, in a show of perfect timing.

“Rey!” He reaches for her hands when he reaches her bed. “How are you doin’? You feelin’ okay, kid?”

It's suddenly a lot hotter than it had been just three seconds before. Her cheeks tinge pink, and for the first time, Rey's glad she's fever-ridden.

“I'm better, thank you.” She hopes he can’t tell how being in his presence always seems to do this to her, this reducing her to a mess of butterflies in her stomach. There's just something so attractive about, well, about his face, obviously, but also his sunny disposition, the cockiness with which he carries himself.

(It doesn't help, of course, that she'd touched herself to him.) “I’m…we’re in Cloud City? It's—the stuff of legends, right? Master Luke had mentioned it once."

“We won't be for much longer, unfortunately.” Poe smiles, all teeth and crinkles around his eyes. “I’m here to take you back.” He looks at her bandaged leg, uncovered by her blankets. “Can you walk?”

“No. Sorry.” She's hanging her head, then, embarrassed by how—how weak she must look. How stupid he’ll think she is once he needles the story out of her, of how she’d injured herself—

“No problem.” To the sound of Li-Guan’s outraged gasp, Poe picks Rey up and cradles her to his chest.

“You shouldn’t be doing that!” the medic cries, the expression on her face the very definition of cross. "She hasn't had stitches yet!"

Rey can feel the rumbling of Poe’s chest as he laughs. “I'm a big boy. I'll be super careful. Besides," he smiles down at her, "my ship’s not too far. And Rey’s not uncomfortable. Ain’t that right?”

“No, of course not,” she says, even if she _does_ feel a bit…cramped. But whatever. She can endure this if she has to, this whole being carried in his arms thing. It's no big deal, no biggie, his large hands flirting dangerously close to parts of her that nobody's ever touched. (Though, she must say, she'd let him be the first, if he'd like...)

As they make their way down a busy hallway, doctors, nurses, and patients alike fretting about, she's even hit by a sense of deja vu.

As if being carried bridal style by handsome men is entirely normal, something her body’s used to. How weird.

(And no, Chewie carrying her doesn’t count.)

 

 

 

On Poe’s ship, not a starfighter but a light corvette, _Defender_ -class, Rey insists on being strapped into the cockpit rather than to a gurney.

“Please. I hate feeling so—so—”

“So fragile?” Poe’s face is all smirk, all play. Her heart skips a beat when he says, “You’re a stubborn girl, aren’t you?”

She bites her tongue and attempts to think of replies wittier than _“I’m not!”_  or " _you're the stubborn one!"_ But because she can’t figure one out, she pretends to pout, just a bit.

“…I just don’t like being injured.”

“Well, here’s some news for you, honey bun.” He laughs. “ _Nobody_ likes being injured.”

Rey has no response to that; she’s dumbstruck by him calling her a pet name, by howmuch pleasure it makes her feel to hear something that silly fall from his mouth. It makes her feel closer to him, somehow.

And it makes her feel desire. A brief flickering of it, as she's really too exhausted to be too lustful (thankfully), but...still.

 _If only Kylo Ren knew this,_ the stubborn part of her thinks. _It would annoy the shit out of him._

And, more importantly, it would establish to him quite clearly that their shared fantasy had been all a fluke.

So she drops the mental guard she'd had in place against her mortal enemy, and she sends Kylo Ren her Poe-centric lust hard and fast. 

She bombards him with absolute filth, in fact, arbitrary images of Poe running his hands through her hair.

Poe slipping a calloused finger into her soaking wet core.

Poe groaning. She, too, when he presses his erection against her thigh.

She’s surprised to find this transfer of mental porn thing not too difficult to do. Kylo Ren hasn’t put up much of a wall (or any at all, now that she considers it), as though he has been hoping she’d reach out to him.

But surely, _surely_ not like this. Oh no, not _this._

Poe unzipping the fly of his pants. 

Poe angling his dick at her entrance, so ready to push in.

Rey squirms in her seat. Oh boy, she can't wait for Ren's reply, what he must _think._  

When he does respond, a bit belatedly, she's surprised to sense a hint of something wet and vulnerable on his end.

(Perhaps she had caught him bathing.)

 _What is this, scavenger?_ he hisses. _Finally decide to talk?_

She doesn’t reply. She gives him Poe pinching her buttocks instead, Poe biting the soft skin of her shoulder.

And she can tell, immediately, that Kylo Ren hates this. Such a stirring of anger, of resentment, of (she realizes with a satisfying start) _jealousy._

 _Stop this,_ he thinks. _Lest you want me to rip his throat out._

Poe kissing her lips. Soft, at first, then more demanding. She likes it, she thinks. She likes that Poe is kissing her like this.

 _I could do it better,_ he whispers possessively.

 _Yeah, well. I want_ him _, not you,_ she spits, out of spite.

Ren snaps then, his fury loud and sharp, like a whip cracking across her brain. _Don’t lie to me._

And he cuts her off, all anger and the slamming of a door.

In his wake, Rey can only grin, satisfied with this outcome. Call her a winner: she can claim victory in yet _another_ battle with Kylo Ren.

 

 

 

...A victory, she discovers several minutes later, that is short-lived. Too short.

For the ship suddenly stops as they make final preparations to jump into hyperspace, and it all feels wrong, as if this shouldn't be happening. Her eyes dart over the dashboard, and when she can't diagnose anything immediately, she breathes, "The motivator?"

"Yeah, probably,” Poe says. “I’ll go check. Be right back.” 

Rey hates to see the back of him, retreating. The irrational fear that this is not a normal malfunction grips her as she glares at the buttons, the switches on the dashboard all gleaming with _newness_. The steering controls, too, are all shining and silver, and she wonders how this is happening— _why,_ how could this be—?

Then it hits her out of nowhere: a sudden invasion of privacy, a sudden presence in her heart, heavy as a ton of bricks. The sensation of somebody else’s body heat, too, crowding and doubling her own...though she’s very much alone in this cockpit, and suddenly she knows, _she knows—_

 _She knows_ that Poe is in danger.

Rey unstraps herself from her seat and struggles (limps) into the corridor.

“Poe!” she shouts. Though it’s too late, this much she can tell.

For Kylo Ren has boarded the ship, and walk confident, cocky, and so, _so mad,_ he is making his way to her.

She can feel his looming, physical presence draw near, like an itch.

And call her a hussy, a slut, _a ruined woman_ if you will—

The itch starts riiiiiiight where a good girl would never, ever scratch.

 

 


	4. envy/plateau (deux)

 

 

**ENVY**

1 : painful or resentful awareness of an advantage enjoyed by another joined with a desire to possess the same advantage

2 _obsolete_ : malice

 

**PLATEAU**

1 : a level of attainment or achievement <the 500-point _plateau >_

2 : the second phase of the human sexual response cycle : the period of sexual excitement prior to orgasm, characterized by increased circulation and heart rate in both sexes; increased sexual pleasure with increased stimulation; and respiration rising to an elevated level

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When the scavenger finds him through the Force (her reaching out to him, for the first time, amazing), she catches him precisely the way he never wants to be caught.

Never _has_ been caught, really. Not like this.

Not with tears in his eyes.

(Not since the bridge _._ )

It’s just…the nightmare—the one she wakes him from—

This is how it goes.

 

 

 

In his dreams, he is throwing a tantrum, though they have guests over at the apartment for dinner. Diplomats of some sort. Important folk.

Mama gives him That Look.

And he may only be four years old, but he isn’t stupid. He knows exactly what That Look means.

It means that “Mama’s disappointed in you, Ben. You’re a big boy. You know better than to behave like this.”

Still. Despite Mama’s reprimand, sharp but still soft (a senator but still a mother), he doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t stop throwing his tantrum, his banging his fists against the table, his screaming at the top of his lungs, mouth wide and face red.

And though only four, he can _feel_ their guests’ discomfort, sense the way their eyes never settle on him for more than a second. They want to leave, this much he can gather from the fragments of thoughts swimming through their heads— _this is such a strange boy,_ they think, _with eyes that are too big, a face too long, not beautiful like his mom, not handsome like his dad_ —

“Ben!”

Han Solo grabs his son’s fork and tosses it onto the table.

Then he grabs his son by the waist and hauls him from his chair.

Ben kicks his legs, screams, “let me go, Papa, let me go!”, but Papa pretends not to hear him, grip tight as he drags him like a sack of flour down the long hallway, stopping at the second door on the right.

It’s the refresher, a small and dark room, and into this small and dark room Han Solo shoves his son. Locks the door.

Ben’s crying now because it’s so dark, and Papa had just stuffed him in between the sink and the toilet, like he’s garbage to be stuffed down a chute.

And Ben’s so scared, because it’s dark. He’s so scared, so afraid, because he’s _frightened of the dark_ (and nobody knows).

“Papa, let me out!” He bangs wildly on the door. “Please! _Please!_ ”

“I’m not letting you out until you learn to be quiet, son,” says the muffled voice from the other side. “You’ve got to learn how to behave. Like a man.”

But Ben’s not a man yet. He’s only four. And he _hates_ the dark, because when he’s in it, he can hear things. Whisperings. Words.

Words like, _Do you hate your father?_ and _I would never do this to you. Not me._

“Papa, let me out!” Ben screams again. And again and again and again.

But Papa stays silent the whole time, as if he’s gone away.

And for seconds, minutes, almost half an hour, Ben stomps his small feet against the floor and bangs his small hands against the door. Ben also cries, lots of crying, his snot clumping around his nose and tears staining every part of his strange, long face. He’s so alone…he’s so _alone_ …

 

 

 

Those tears, from that memory, are not unlike the tears that stain Kylo’s face now; he wipes them away with the back of a black gloved hand. He’d fallen asleep at the console of his command shuttle, and sleeping in the captain’s chair had _not_ been kind to his back, nor to his mood in general.

(Fucking nightmares.)

When the scavenger finds him through the Force the way she does, he’s almost glad for it, ‘cuz it gives him something else to dwell on, something that isn’t depressing as fuck.

Something that’s rather _yummy_ , actually. Something that strums a string of need in Kylo.

 _Mm, yes,_ she moans through their bond. As he blinks away the last of his tears, he decides he wants to hear her pant again. Needs to hear her pant.

 _Yes, Commander. Fuck yes, Commander…!_ An interesting title to assign him, Kylo decides, but it’s not _wrong_ , per se. He _is_ a commander of the First Order in some capacity, after all.

_Mm, yeah, fuck me hard, Poe…_

Wait. Hold up a second. _Hold up._ Speaking of wrong— _this_ is wrong, this is so fucking wrong, isn't it? Because his name’s not Poe, most definitely not, and could it be she’s fantasizing about the _best pilot in the Resistance,_ and fuck, _what?_ What the fuck…?

Visualizing the scene through their bond, he doesn’t see himself.

He gets Poe Dameron in full force instead: Poe Dameron running fingers through her glossy brown hair, hanging in thick waves down her back.

Poe Dameron slipping a calloused finger into her soaking wet cunt, drenching himself where _his_ fingers should be.

And, last but not least, Poe Dameron kissing those full, pouty lips of hers, and fuck. _Fuck!_ does Kylo hate this, _every little bit_ of this, the thought that some random, piece of shit pilot is fingerfucking the girl he’s fingerfucked to multiple orgasms, multiple times in his mind…?

This is wrong. So wrong.

Because she is _his_.

His to kiss, his to touch.

His to run hands through all that brown hair.

She just doesn’t know it yet. So he tries to make her see.

 _I could do it better,_ Kylo says, voice barely above a rasp. He bolsters the thought by sending her images of his own, that of his face twisted in pleasure, him rutting fully clothed against her bare leg—but it’s so _hard_ to conjure anything, anything else, when she says:

 _I want_ him _, not you_.

And.

Well.

_Damn._

For her to straight up lie to his face like that? He just--he can't. He needs to restore some sense to her. He needs to remind her of who he is.

(He needs to not worry about how he hadn't been able to feel the lie behind the words, the nagging feeling she was being honest.) 

Kylo fires up his shuttle, shaking from holding in his anger and from slamming that door to their bond shut. Hot loathing for Poe Dameron courses through his veins, threatening to render him blind as he sends himself hurtling through hyperspace.

Amid his anger, he is grateful he hadn’t injected that tracker into the pilot for nothing.

 

 

* * *

 

 

For like the third or fourth time in her life, Rey is royally fucked, and she knows it.

There’s just no other way to put it. No delicate way to explain the situation she’s in right now—her limping through the corridors of the corvette, her cut re-opened and bleeding, her wincing and crying after Poe, _please_ , _where are you, I hope you’re still alive…_

Kylo Ren, all the while, draws close. She can feel it.

She can feel him.

“Poe!” she yells, through gritted teeth. “Where are you?”

“Rey?” she hears in the distance. “You okay, honey bun? I’m over here—“

His voice, cut off.

The sound of a struggle, over fast.

“Poe!” she screams, hurrying now despite the pain. “Poe, I’m coming—“

“My silly scavenger."

That voice, that voice, _that voice._ She tries to block it out, but it's here, in the ship.

"Where do you think you’re going?”

It sounds from right behind her, and she wills it to go away. ‘Cuz this is all a bad dream, right?

This is all a nightmare.

Kylo Ren is not right behind her, oh no, oh no, oh no.

 _He isn’t, he isn’t, he isn’t…_ (Though she can _feel_ his presence within her, like a shot of a little somethin’, somethin’ right in her veins—)

“You can’t ignore me forever, Rey.”

“I can try,” she breathes out, hopping now, literally _hopping_ on one leg to get away, _she must get to Poe_ …but she can’t ignore Kylo Ren’s breath on her neck, the way it scratches that damn, fucking itch, the one throbbing right in the very heart of her, in the core of sex—

“Why are you fighting?” he asks. “You’ve already lost the game.”

“It—doesn’t matter. I hate you,” she groans, through the pain of accidentally putting pressure on her injured leg. “If you’re here for me, just…take me, and let Poe—let him go—“

“You’re coming willingly?” he asks, voice smoother than butter left to melt under a Jakku sun. “I don’t have to take you by force?”

She winces. “I don't know if you can tell, but I can’t quite _go_ anywhere right now _._ My leg—“

“Is bleeding.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed,” she hisses, looking to her bandage. A small patch of red, wet blood has soaked through the gauze. “Just get it over with, Ren. I surrender, I swear. Just let Poe go—“

“Why do you care so much about the pilot?” His voice darkens, gets all low and slow, and she can feel it in her clit, pulsing once, twice. “…Is he your lover?”

Rey shakes her head. “No, no. The stuff through the bond wasn’t real.”

She can feel him rifling through her thoughts to confirm her confession, as she collapses against the wall (and gives up altogether).

“Please,” she mutters, wiping at the angry, traitorous tears streaming down her face. “Don’t do anything to him. He’s innocent. This is between you and me.”

A heavy silence falls then, and it’s stifling. Rey hasn’t yet looked at his face, though the desire to is overwhelming. She can still remember the way she’d scarred him—her standing over his body and ready, _too ready_ to deliver the final blow, a voice floating on the wind and telling her to just do it… _just do it already_ …

“Look at me.”

She squeezes her eyes shut. “No.”

 _Look at me, Rey,_ he whispers in her head, and against her will, she does. She looks him in the eye.

His face hasn’t changed much. It’s still long and strange and inexplicably handsome. The only difference is that scar, her parting gift to him: it doesn’t run deep, but it cuts diagonally across his face, a slap of pink on his otherwise pale skin.

His hair is still (unfairly) luscious, obsidian black and voluminous, styled (by the Force?) to perfection. And those lips of his—they’re abnormally full for a man, strangely plump for someone otherwise so male, as if he spends many minutes a day worrying that wide bottom lip, causing blood to rush there, to fill every little crease with redness—

“You want me,” he says, his voice hypnotic. “Through all your fear, and no matter your words, you want me.” A smirk tugs his lips upward, to one side. “You do.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” She grits her teeth. “Either take me or don’t.”

And so he does take her (the obliging gentleman!); he sweeps her off her feet quite literally, her weight no burden to him, and he carries her through the ship to his shuttle.

In his arms, Rey wilts, feeling guilty, so guilty…she shouldn’t feel this _relieved_ to not walk anymore, but she's just so damned  _tired_ and in pain and  _Poe, forgive me, please--_

When they pass through the conference room, she spies the pilot lying by the mahogany strategy table, his eyes closed. There’s no trace of blood on his body, and he looks like he’s sleeping—but that doesn’t mean he’s safe, oh no.

She reaches through the Force for him and nearly cries out to sense that he’s still alive, oh thank you, thank you, thank you.

Thank you he’s not awake to see her (giving up) like this.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When the girl comes willingly, Kylo must admit that he’s rather surprised.

He had fully expected at least a little bit of screaming and thrashing, spitting and crying. (Maybe even biting, oh yes.)

But though there are tears, there’s none of the rest. She just slumps, dead-like, in his arms, a weight that isn’t exactly heavy but seems so nonetheless.

(He wonders if it was him agreeing to let the pilot go, scot-free, that is the source of her easy surrender, and like, yeah, so _what_ if he’s jealous and petty? He can’t lie, won’t lie. _Sure,_ it bothers him she cares so deeply for Poe Dameron—that she’d give up without a fight to guarantee Poe Dameron’s continued existence…)

In his shuttle, he cuffs her roughly to the bars of the holding cell. It nearly gives him pleasure to see her wince in his bruising grip; it turns him on to sense her defiance, her snarky little _I hate you so much_ whispered through their bond.

‘Cuz it tells him that she’s still Rey, the scavenger he’d kidnapped much like this, once before.

She isn’t dead, oh no. She hasn’t given up, not yet.

And this is news worth relaying to Supreme Leader Snoke. In the cockpit, he does just that.

_Supreme Leader. I am returning with the girl._

There’s radio silence on the other end for several moments—then a roaring in his head, sudden and invasive.

 _Are you now?_ A quiet beat, as Kylo’s heart pounds. _And you seduced her as I instructed?_

 _I didn’t have to,_ Kylo replies, a tad smug. _She came willingly._

_Willingly…as in through the technique I told you to learn?_

_Not quite._ Kylo can feel his left brow twitch. _Does it really matter how I won her? She’s mine. She’s in my ship as we speak._

 _Foolish boy,_ Snoke mutters. _Idiot. My stupid, stupid apprentice._

A sinking in his stomach. _What did I do wrong?_

_You didn’t learn a single thing. You have learned nothing from me._

Kylo can feel panic sweep through him, ball his hands into fists. _That’s not true! I got her, didn’t I? She’s here. She’ll bow before you soon enough—_

_I do not want her the way you took her, apprentice. I wanted you to seduce her by way of the Force. By way of carnality. And did you? Did you?_

_No,_ Kylo admits, breathing out his nose slowly. _I did not._

_Then you know what you have to do now, don’t you?_

Kylo swallows. He’s so mad. He’s so, so— _I do. I’ll return to the fortress. I’ll take her, under your guidance—_

 _Fool boy!_ Snoke thunders. _I do not want to see your face until you’ve broken her. Only then can you even_ think _of returning to me._

Then there’s nothing, as his master disappears. Kylo reaches again and again in vain, but he gets no response. Just radio silence.

And a sudden, burning, _immediate_ _need_ to break something.

_Now._

Whipping his lightsaber out, he aims away from the console and smashes a blank wall over and over, anger coursing through his arm like a drug, enabling him to absorb the repeated shock of delivering blow after blow, marking his shuttle with an X of flames and burns.

How could the Supreme Leader _not want the girl?_ The very same one he’d commanded he _bring to me,_ the one on his ship right now, and so what if he hadn’t seduced her, so what if he hadn’t learned a thing from those stupid fucking scrolls?

He’s somehow failed _again_ , and this knowledge is a piercing thing, a fiery thing as Kylo moves onto another wall, smashing and smashing and oops, he might’ve destroyed the cloaking device, but who gives a fuck, ‘cuz Supreme Leader Snoke surely doesn’t—

 _What are you doing?_ sounds suddenly in his head.

He stops moving, the loud buzzing in his brain clearing away as the scavenger speaks.

 _Nothing. Mind your own business,_ he snaps, his saber humming too noisily in the background. He deactivates it and hurls it against the wall.

 _You’ve got issues,_ Rey has the audacity to say. _You really are a monster._

Kylo shuts his eyes. Her words actually hurt (if you can believe it), and he feels such self-loathing, such a sudden swelling of disgust for the walls of his shuttle, damaged and smoking; for his very body, for his hands and his feet, for his face, for everything he is right now, just a failure, call from the light—

_Come here._

He opens his eyes. He stares down at the dash.

He punches coordinates into the command.

Then he goes to the scavenger, like the slave he is, that’s precisely what he is—

Always and only ever moving at somebody else’s beck and call.

 

 

 

When he gets to her, he demands from her, snarling, “ _What?_ ”

She asks, voice cool, “Where are you taking me?”

He pauses, extending the moment. He can’t tell her that Snoke doesn’t want them back at the fortress yet, nor can he tell her that they’re going to the only place in the galaxy that’s ever given him peace.

“We’re going somewhere I can teach you a lesson,” he says, looking down his nose at her. She looks so small curled against the bars of the cell like that, both her hands cuffed above her head.

“Why were you so angry just now?” she asks. “Did the ship make you mad? Did it hurt you?”

Oh fuck, oh damn—is she toying with him? Is she messing about?

(Had she _really_ called him here to flirt?)

He narrows his eyes, glaring at her, at the smear of blood on the concrete beneath her right leg. Now that he’s really paying attention, her lips do look kinda pale, her cheeks devoid of color, and her breathing a bit too shallow for his liking.

“You could be bleeding out.” He unlocks the cell quickly, sliding the door to the side. “You need to be fixed.”

“Oh. So you know how to—“

“To Force heal? Of course.” He kneels beside her, and through their bond, he can sense her fear, mingled with relief. “It might hurt a little,” he mutters, unwrapping her damp bandage, careful not to press on the cut. “But you’ll feel better when I’m done.”

She doesn’t reply, gnawing on her lower lip and watching him through half-lidded eyes. A sudden spike of _need_ courses through her when the bandage flutters to the ground and his gloved hands make contact with her leg. It’s obvious by the streaks of red all across the skin of her calf that she’s been blood poisoned; she hisses in pain when he prods all around her wound.

(Anger sparks to life in his stomach, to know that she’d been neglected like this.)

“The Resistance failed you, Rey,” he says. “You haven’t been treated properly.”

She’s panting slightly now, desire surging through her when one of his hands circles the skin of her thigh, the other around her ankle. “Well, hurry up and fix it.”

He pauses. He looks at the sweat beading on her forehead, sliding down the side of her cheek. “I’m wearing gloves. How are you feeling me so strongly?”

Rey shakes her head. “I don’t know. The bond? I can’t control it…it’s like an itch.” Irritation flashes through her. “Just—get it over with already.”

He smirks and, on impulse, uncuffs her with the Force. This is an exercise in trust, the first of who-knows-how-many—

And when she doesn’t attack him, he smiles. Even wider when she folds her arms across her chest and snaps, “C’mon! I’m dying.”

_I’m dying…_

The phrase echoes in his head, and Kylo is tempted to extend her pain out of pure spite, but no, that wouldn’t be right. She’s trusting him to fix her (she had _called him here_ to do just that), and it’s such a naive, innocent notion (that she can trust him in any way after all that he’s done) that he’s almost, kinda, sorta touched.

So he delays no more, grabbing at the Force threads he needs and going to work. He holds his hands above her leg, and his power flows through him and right to her, stitching her skin together, battering the infection to submission, to retreat, to go, go away, and he can’t help but think back on the time Uncle Luke had taught him to do this, when young Ben Solo had gotten beat up real bad by the other boys, the ones that hated him for no real reason other than him being “gross” and “ugly”; the ones who’d twisted his arms, held him down, punched at his face until it bled—

 _You’re so sad,_ he hears in his head.

But he ignores it, doesn’t reply. He finishes up the healing quickly and mutters, “Good as new.”

Rey blinks, then looks down at her leg. She bends her knee gingerly and runs a hand over the now smooth skin of her calf. It clearly doesn’t hurt anymore.

“Oh,” she breathes. “I see.”

Letting go of the Force, he flexes his fingers and looks her in the eye.

“Now, what are you supposed to say?"

"Excuse me?" She blinks.

He smirks. "Don’t you have manners, scavenger?” he asks. “Thank me.”

She meets his gaze and holds it. For a long minute they stare at each other like that: a battle of relentless eye contact, until she gives up, looks away. Glares stubbornly at a wall.

“…Maybe later.”

He grabs her handcuffs, which had fallen to the floor, and growls. “If you don’t thank me now, I’m cuffing you again.”

She rubs at a bruised wrist. “Go ahead. I’m not scared.”

“No?” Irritation rises in him, along with a tide of arousal, because he can’t lie, he can’t deny: he likes a good challenge. It gets his blood pumping.

Even more so when she extends her reddened wrists to him, his cock jerking to life when she says, “Go on. I’m waiting.”

He strains into their bond as he cuffs her, annoyed when he hits that damned brick wall, hearing nothing, none of her thoughts.

It makes him mad, so he pinches her thigh.

“You are an ungrateful wench,” he spits. “You need to be punished.”

“I don’t need anything.” Her voice is a tad too haughty for his liking. “Least of all anything from you.”

“And this after I healed you, huh?” He pinches her thigh hard, harder, hardest, until she winces.

“Turn around,” he demands. “Get on your knees.”

“No.”

Kylo drags her to her feet with one hand. She sways unsteadily, and he turns her around. Pushes her down, onto her knees on all fours, before assuming a kneeling position behind her.

He bends himself over her back, pressing his hardening cock to her rear, and growling, into her ear, “Thank me now, or I’ll spank you. You don’t want to be spanked, now do you?”

“I’m not thanking you for anything,” she replies, defiant. “I don’t want to owe you a damn thing.”

He rips his gloves off his hands. The cool air of the ship tingles his bare skin, and his nerves feel so alive and wonderful, so sweet, as he parts her legs. Snaps the waistband of her pants.

“You owe me a lot, scavenger.” He ruts his clothed erection against her round bottom, and the relief it provides him is immediate, a salve that both soothes and burns, and he wants more, so much more, _more_. “Without me, you would be dead.”

She presses her face, flushed red, against the wall. “So what? I’d rather die than—than—“

“Than feel this?” He tugs her pants down to her knees. A pair of panties, gray and flimsy, covers her round ass. The shape of her pussy lips strains against the cloth, and when he traces two fingers across the outline, she whimpers.

“Stop…” she begs. “I’ll—I’ll _—I’m gonna—“_

“What’s that, scavenger?”

He removes his hand from her cunt, then peels his entire body away from hers, all together. It’s so hard, _so hard_ to pull away, but he has a promise to make good on:

He pulls her underwear low, then takes a seat on the floor, hauling her over his lap. Without further ado, he brings his hand down _hard_ on her firm, round ass, smacking her heavily once. Then twice.

Then three times.

Smack.

Four times.

Smack.

Five.

The sound of his spanking her, this bad, bad girl of his, bounces around the cell, a symphony that’s too naughty and too loud, _too loud_ ; it mingles with her gasps, her moans, her cries—everything he’s ever wanted in a song, Kylo thinks—not that he’s had time to listen to much music lately.

(This will have to do for now.)

“Do you like it?” he asks, his open palm smacking her right ass cheek, then left, over and over, an unpredictable beat. A lovely shade of red blossoms across her white skin.

“Do you like it when I spank you?” he asks again.

“No…” She’s panting now, and her wall has crumbled at last. He surges deep into her mind, smiling when he senses that _you do, you do like this. You like this so much. Me spanking you for misbehaving._

 _I do not!_ She contradicts this thought by moaning loudly when he smacks her harder than he has; her pussy is absolutely _drenched_ , and above her, he can see it glisten. He can smell it, even, all her arousal, a scent so sharp he can almost taste it on his tongue—

So he decides not to deny himself any longer. He pushes her onto her knees again, then just _goes_ for it, tasting her that is, lapping at her juices with his tongue, shoving his face into her cunt. He strips her pants off and spreads her legs wide, nosing at her wetness, inhaling her scent, loving the way she starts to sob at the sensation of his tongue licking the perfect, swollen, pink lips of her pussy…

“Kylo…” She presses her face to the floor, and smiling, he presses his tongue into her.

“You taste good,” he murmurs. He licks up to her asshole, and he spends a moment enjoying her there.

“ _Kylo…”_ She can’t remember how to say anything other than his name, and this is a victory to him, nipping lightly at the pink skin of her ass.

“Say you want me,” he sighs, pressing a kiss to the dimple of her smooth, lower back. 

She can’t manage words, not with her mouth, but he can hear through the bond a quiet, straining: _I want you…_

And oh, how it sends him on a power trip so right. He’s absolutely giddy with the knowledge that he’s her first, her only, her absolute desire—he pushes his throbbing cock, still clothed, against her body and humps the back of her naked thigh over and over, again and again, to _mmmm,_ oh yes—to his—to his _—his completion—so good—_

He comes hard and fast, moaning loud and spurting in his pants. When he pulls away from her thigh, gasping in the aftermath, he watches the inner lips of her cunt clench. She’s needy, she still hasn’t come, but she wants to…oh, does she want to.

“ _Please,”_ she whines, “It’s not fair.” She raises her head, looks at him over her shoulder. Her eyes are bright, her face red, her neck too flushed—

He bends to kiss her mouth, and it’s a wet and sloppy kiss, made extra yummy by the fact that she can taste herself on him.

He reaches into the front of his pants and smears his hand with cum. He brings two cum-soaked fingers to her lips—she pops them into her mouth eagerly, sucking and sucking, her eyes watering when he shoves them deep, tickling the back of her throat—

“Agh…” Drool dribbles down her chin, onto the floor when he pulls his fingers out. “Please. I—I need—“

“To come?” He smiles lazily. “Then thank me. I’ll let you come.”

She all but sighs, closing her eyes, “Thank you…” She spreads her legs as far apart as she can and thrusts her ass into the air, so desperate is she to orgasm.

A satisfied smile tugs at Kylo’s lips, as he bends to lick her cunt again, laving at her wetness just once; the smile morphs into a smug, smug grin when he stops and stumbles to his feet.

Backs out of her cell.

Slides the cell door shut.

And returns to the cockpit, like a soldier come home from war (a dirty, dirty war)—though unlike a veteran of war, he has returned no better a person than he’d been before he’d left.

(He might have, one could argue, returned even worse.)

 _I hate you_ rings loudly through their bond as he sinks into the captain’s chair and licks his lips. So good. _So good. You taste so good, Rey._

_I hate you so much, Kylo Ren._

He laughs for the first time in a long time, their destination planet looming big and bright before him.

 

 


	5. lust/orgasm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve come back to deliver sin.

******LUST**

1 _obsolete_

a : pleasure, delight

b : personal inclination : wish

2 : usu. intense or unbridled sexual desire **  
**

 

**ORGASM**

  1 : the third stage of the human sexual response cycle, characterized by intense or paroxysmal excitement; _especially_ **:**   an explosive discharge of neuromuscular tensions at the height of sexual arousal

2 :  the point during sexual activity when sexual pleasure is strongest

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

After Kylo Ren leaves her high and dry and ass cheeks in the air of his holding cell, Rey is angry, yes. And humiliated too. Of course she is. How could anyone not be humiliated?

To be edged to the highest point of her pleasure…and not be allowed to fall.

How fucking cruel.

And this during her first ever sexual encounter—further confirmation that Kylo Ren is a selfish bastard who doesn’t give a damn about others.

Truly the Dark side incarnate.

But no matter.

Rey decides to take matters into her own hands, quite literally. Because she’s the heroine of her own story, right? She’s the heroine of her own damned story, and just because her primary antagonist is a sadistic sex maniac doesn’t mean she can’t have pleasure—her _own pleasure_ , the kind she achieves all by herself.

Because she doesn’t _need_ a man to give her the ultimate pleasure, oh no, not Rey. The quest for pleasure can be accomplished solo (sans Ben), for what are the use of fingers if not for masturbating?

Mmm, yes, the act of self-pleasure. With how worked up she already is, it doesn’t take Rey long to rekindle that ache Kylo’s laving tongue, his juice-coated lips had started…

Rey’s pussy also tells no lies; it weeps in his absence, in desire for the thick and long and veiny cock he’s sure to have (look at him, he’s enormous), to ram her until she screams and screams and loses her voice and _oh, fuck, I hate you, I hate you so much, Kylo Ren,_ she thinks as she comes.

_You’re so awful, so selfish._

_So everything I do not want._

Through the bond, she suggests how much she’d like to squirt all over his face as a demonstration of her hatred for him, yes, for being so damn _mean_. _What do you think about that?_

In the lazy afterglow of orgasm, lulling her to sleep, she can hear the sound of his laughter in her head, far away and far too pleasant for her to feel okay.

I’m okay.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When Rey wakes, she finds her hands cuffed again, but the surface on which she’s lying is different. It’s soft, unlike the linoleum of the cell floor she’d fallen asleep on.

The air too is different: not recycled, nor cold, as it had been on the ship. It’s hot actually, like the air on Jakku, but it’s got none of the skin-cracking dryness of Nima Outpost on a good day—the air here is moist, humid, and heavy. It hangs around her face, and she has to blink away sweat as she acclimates herself to her new environment.

Hm. Mhm.

Yes.

Her ankles are bound, and she’s lying on a bed in a room. While the bed is large (fit for a king), the room is small…emphasis on _small:_ it’s practically another prison cell, though the ceiling is high, the walls wood-paneled. Rustic.

The length of the bed stretches, headboard to bedpost, from one wall to the other. It’s pushed up against a window, an enormous single sheet of glass that displays, in all its glory, the world outside.

One that has Rey gasping as she takes it all in:

A gorgeous forest of some kind, wild and lush and so, _so_ green…! Emerald, in fact, a feast for her eyes. And unlike the forests she’s been to already (the sparse one on Takodana, the snowy one on Starkiller Base), this forest is dense and thick and mangled absolutely by _life_ : leaves, vines, trees, their branches mossy and dripping with water—

She turns her head away, so overwhelmed is she by the beauty of the window view.

She looks to Kylo Ren instead, at how he is sitting on the floor a few feet away, his back against the wall, his long legs splayed out in front of him.

He’s reading from some kind of…scroll? She watches him mouth the words silently, his full lips moving but producing no sound.

It’s such a human thing for him to do, she thinks. It’s almost _too_ human a sight, as overwhelming as the forest is, and she can’t stand it, she has to look away, up at the high ceiling instead.

“Where am I?” she asks, voice cracking pathetically as an overpowering sense of deja vu sweeps throught her. She clears her throat.

“Endor. Forest moon,” Kylo Ren replies.

Her heart skips a beat. “The entire moon is forest?”

“It’s forested, yes. How the forest looks and grows varies from region to region. We’re near the equator, so the forests here are rainy. Jungle.”

 _Jungle._ She’d only ever dreamt of such a place, visual lullabies for restless nights. Now she’s _in_ one, in some kind of—

“Treehouse,” Kylo Ren finishes for her.

Rey meets his eyes at last, hazel eyes on hazel, though…there’s something about his iris, murky green save for that large ring of brown right around the black of his pupils: a bit of a forest, she thinks, but stormier than the one outside…

She blinks. “Why a treehouse?” she asks, swallowing drily. “Do people live here?”

“Not in this neck of the woods.” His lips curl. “There aren’t any ewoks here, either. They’d drown from all the rain.”

“Ewoks?” She frowns and struggles to sit up. It’s a nigh impossible task with her limbs bound tight, but she manages, forgetting what remains of her dignity and squirming upright.

“They’re awful.” Kylo crinkles his nose (again, so human). “They inhabit the northern forests.”

Rey draws her knees to her chest, hands to her face. Ah, _fuck—_ she can smell her own scent on her fingers, how embarrassing. The air is warm enough for the smell to hang in the air, of that she’s sure, and if her hands are unclean, the rest of her, her sodden underwear—the smell must be _pervasive—_

“I was going to bathe you,” Kylo says, “but it didn’t seem right with you asleep.”

 _Didn’t seem right…?_ Goodness gracious, will you listen to that. Kylo Ren cares about right and wrong!

She snorts. “Are you serious? After everything you’ve done to me, _that_ is where you draw the line?”

“Of course. I _have_ boundaries, you know.”

Disbelief drops her jaw. She scans his face for any and all signs that he’s joking, right? He has to be joking.

“I’m not.” He looks back down at his scroll. His long, black eyelashes feather the tops of his cheeks, and her heart begins to beat rather fast.

“Ugh.” She shakes her head. “You really are crazy. You—you—“ She closes her mouth and studies his face by the light streaming through the window, illuminating such pale, smooth skin (save for the scar she gifted him of course): he hasn’t seen sun, _real sun,_ in a while. “…You don’t make any sense.”

“Not my problem.”

“What do you mean it’s not your problem?” She leans back against the headboard. “Didn’t you think it was _remotely_ wrong of you to have—to have _licked_ me with your tongue? And to have, I don’t know— _hit_ me with your bare hands—“

A sudden smile tugs his lips upward. The expression is positively mesmerizing, so transformative is it to his face; he looks young when he smiles, young and open and like his father, and blessed be, the smile even touches his eyes.

Rey stares. She’s only shaken from her stupor by the words, “There’s a difference between ‘hitting’ and ‘spanking,’ scavenger. Do you know it?”

She blushes, and it’s a full-body experience, this blush, blossoming heat from her cheeks down her décolletage and past her breasts and belly; she has to clench her pussy as she thinks back on his big hand slapping at her butt cheeks over and over again.

“…S-Still!” She looks away from him and back out the window, at the stunning view. If only she could be out there right now, instead of here, anywhere but here.

“I-I—you—I didn’t _ask_ to be s-sp—sp—“ She can’t get the word out, she can’t even get the word out, damn him! It’s just so naughty, so…so childish. Immature.

(She thinks back on being ten and in Unkar Plutt’s care, his _ginormous,_ beefy hand smacking her bottom the first, and only, time she had been caught stealing extra portions for dinner.

She hates the memory, she thinks. And she thinks she hates spanking, too.)

“That’s a lie, and you know it,” Kylo mutters. “I seem to recall you enjoying spanking very much—at least, when _I_ did it to you.”

 _Get out of my head!_ Rey tries to slam the door to their connection shut, but he sticks his foot in the entryway.

“I can’t. Not when you’re thinking about something as wonderful as spanking.”

 _Stop using that awful word._ She tries valiantly to shove him from her consciousness.

He fills her mind instead, his presence large and so invasive that she can barely register her own thoughts.

 _You can’t push me out when I’m this close, scavenger._ A smile again, this time wicked and evil; Rey can hear her pulse in her ears.

“I can try,” she says.

 _Don’t bother._ He physically stands, his body filling out the corner of the room, the scroll he had been reading unwinding all over the floor. Rey glances at the paper for a second: gibberish.

 _Not gibberish._ Kylo Ren advances toward her.

Rey scoots as quickly as she can to the far side of the bed. There had been so little space in the room already, but now…?

“Don’t!” she yells. “Don’t come any closer.”

He comes closer. His voice is soft when he speaks. “Don’t you want me to spank you, Rey? Don’t you want me to spank your bare ass until your cunt is soaked?”

Of course. Of course.

“Of course not!” she snaps. Her eyes narrow in warning. “So don’t you _dare_ touch me—“

And because he’s completely incapable of doing anything she’s ever asked of him, he touches her, yes, of course he touches her. He pulls her prone over his lap in fact, which is too damned reminiscent of what had transpired between them earlier in the day.

Flushed, she wiggles out of his grasp and manages to roll off the bed, landing in an ungraceful heap of limbs and cloth.

This doesn’t faze Kylo one bit.

He scoops her up, as if she weighed nothing, and sets her over his lap again. “Don’t fight me,” he says, voice low like a purr. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You just threatened to _spank_ me!” she yells, struggling to get away again. “Honestly—you are _infuriating—“_

“If you really do hate it so much, I won’t spank you,” he says, one hand scrunching the fabric of her shirt in a tight grip, rendering escape difficult. “I promise.”

As if she could trust him for a second…though she must admit she’s shocked (and intrigued) that he would promise anything to anybody, much less her, _scavenger scum_ and likely a worthless sack of shit in his eyes, nothing more than a momentary plaything…

Once he has his way with her, Rey is absolutely certain she will be discarded.

“But how can you know that?” he asks. “If you were truly worthless to me, you would be dead by now.”

A chilling thought. Rey dips her head and scoffs. “I’m nothing, Ren. I’m _no one_.” She closes her eyes. “You have no reason to be interested in me. And I’m not saying this with any self-pity. It’s just true.”

 _I’m just a girl,_ she thinks. Force-sensitive, yes, and embroiled in a whole host of crazy fucking shit, _sure,_ but she’s just—she’s a nobody in the end. She has no grand legacy in her blood, no lineage to (dis)honor the way he does.

Kylo Ren sets a hand gently on her ass. “There’s a lot you have to learn.” He’s not wearing gloves again, and his hand is very big. It practically covers an entire cheek, which he rubs slowly, in circles, through her pants. His movements are gentle, almost, bordering on something like reassurance _…_

“There’s so much I want to teach you,” he says, his voice low and a danger to her sanity. “Like…this.”

She doesn’t have a chance to see what exactly he does, but she is hit suddenly with _heat—_ a very plain, familiar feeling of hot, of burning, generating from her, well, her _butt_ (which she assumes has something to do with the placement of his hand, still resting easy on one ass cheek).

“What is this?” she asks. It’s not uncomfortable, this intense warmth, but it’s pretty weird to have one ass cheek at a normal temperature and the other catching fire.

“What do you feel?”

“Heat.”

“And?”

“That’s about it.”

He tuts. “Are you sure?”

“Why would I lie?” She wiggles her bottom for good measure—and nada, nothing but warmth, localized to one butt cheek. “…Am I supposed to be feeling something else?”

Kylo Ren growls in response, lifting his hand; the feeling dissipates, and Rey looks over her shoulder to stare at him.

“What are you attempting?” she asks.

“Quiet.” He rolls his neck, then his shoulders. “I need to focus.”

Part of Rey, the rational part, doesn’t want to know what he’s intending to do to her. 

But the other part of Rey? The completely and unquenchably curious part of her, the part that had her up and leave Jakku in the first place, thereby starting this insane spiral into sex games with her enemy?

This part is _desperate_ to know what he’s up to, for it’s sure to be delicious, if the thoughts that are free flowing from his mind right now are any indication:

Pleasure and heat, pleasure and _heat,_ in conjunction with—

Need, want, lust, and seduction. Raw, unbridled sex—

She feels heat again, this time starting at her lower back, where his hand is; it feels rather good actually—sleeping on the hard floor of the holding cell hadn’t been kind to her back muscles, so this heat is soothing.

She sighs.

Kylo grunts. “It’s not meant to be _soothing_.”

“Then what is it supposed to feel like?” Rey asks lazily. This heat really is quite useful, quite useful indeed…

“Like this.”

An open hand slap on her ass. Stinging.

Rey squeaks in protest. “You _promised_ not to spank me!”

“But it felt good, didn’t it?”

“ _No!”_ The full-body blush returns with a vengeance, and she wishes she could bury her head under a pillow. “There are other ways to make a woman feel good, for goodness sake! They’re preferable to this. I’m not—I’m not a _masochist!”_

“What a shame.” Kylo places his hand on her lower back again. “Pain and pleasure are one and the same to me.”

The way he says those words, so matter of factly, has got Rey far more hot and bothered than any trick of the Force. Her pussy tightens at the thought of wrapping her hands around his neck, choking him as she rides his dick—

Warmth again. Only this time it’s entwined with a different sort of heat: heady lust. And this lust has nothing to do with Kylo’s Force ability and everything to do with their bond.

For Kylo Ren likes what he’s hearing through their connection. _More. Tell me more._

The image of her sitting on his face appears immediately. She imagines squeezing his head in between her thighs, which have developed quite nicely as part of her training, and she imagines forcing him to gulp down her juices as she squirts all over his face.

“Ugh.” Kylo groans aloud. She can feel him growing hard against her legs. “Keep going.”

She decides not to. Because why should she? Especially given how he’d left her hanging just a few hours before?

“Don’t be petty,” he snarls. He slaps her ass again.

She gasps. “ _You’re_ the petty one. The pettiest person I know.” She can’t grow complacent around him, of that she’s sure, so Rey squirms again in her attempt to escape.

He surprises her by flipping her onto her back, then immediately straddling her thin frame. 

“You’re not going anywhere,” he growls. “Not that there’s anywhere _to_ go.” His gaze darts quickly to the window, then returns to her face just as fast. “I’m your master in this jungle.”

Rey laughs, short and sharp.“Don’t even try to play that card, Ren. You may have me locked in your sex fetish treehouse, but you are not, for one _second_ , in control of me.”

“No?”

The Force rings in Rey’s ears: his power swells around him, its target _her._

 _“You will obey me completely_ ,” he whispers, complete seduction. “ _You will bend to my commands.”_

Oh, how she would like to do that, she thinks…oh, how much simpler life would be if she had a master, someone who decided everything and anything _for_ her, on her behalf, never a bad idea, never a conflict within her soul—

“I will not,” she murmurs, closing her eyes and shielding herself from his gaze. His mind trick doesn’t work half as well when they’re not locking eyes.

He thrusts his weight, rolls his hips against her pubic bone.

Rey whines. “I—I will not—“

 _“You will obey every word I say.”_ He dips his head until his breath tickles her ear. One large hand traces its way up the side of her body, stopping briefly to toy with one of her innocent nipples through the fabric of her shirt.

The hand settles on the side of her face, caressing her sweat-soaked skin. _“I will fuck you, and you will like it.”_

 _“No.”_ She opens her eyes, the Force rushing through her as she pushes him backwards, throwing him up against the opposite wall, which he hits with an _oomph!_ his head snapping back and hitting the wood paneling.

Rey grins, and she knows she must look deranged, _is_ deranged, but who gives a fuck, she doesn’t care—she is so powerful as she breaks free from her handcuffs and crawls toward Kylo Ren, slumped against the wall and then _pinned_ _there_ , by the sheer Force of her _power…!_

“ _I am your master,”_ she says, reaching out to hold his chin between her fingers.

His eyes begin to glaze over, his dark pupils blowing up and edging out the brown and green, but because he’s strong, he fights it, yes, he fights with all the strength he can muster. “ _You are my—my—_ no—“

Her lips pull upward, and she uses this moment to probe his mind instead. The probe offers more clarity into his memories and his every motivation than their bond does.

 _The face of a boy, young, smooth-skinned and pale, a mop of black hair atop his head; the face of Han Solo, someone he loves dearly and misses daily._ She tells him as much out loud, and it’s sure to hurt him.

“You imagine your father. You dream of him still.” So cruel, these words, she knows, and she is Dark right now, and Master Luke wouldn’t like this one bit, not _one bit_.

Tears well in Kylo Ren’s eyes, wide and unblinking.

She continues. “You resent your teacher…wizened, with the ruined face.” Yes, she can see the Supreme Leader. She suddenly knows what he’s done to Ben Solo, the image of a young boy and then a young man tormented by the idea of his _heritage_ , Darth Vader, Anakin Skywalker, love gone bad, gone wrong, so wrong…

“Something else,” she says, grasping at the memory of a scroll in his mind.Identical to the one on the floor, the technique is…oh, oh my.

Oh, dear.

In her contemplating, he pushes back. She can feel him shoving with real weight and power.

“Out of my head,” he growls. And all of a sudden she’s out, she’s out.

She can’t get back in.

She’s no longer holding him up against the wall.

He lunges at her, his hands seeking her throat and his lips seeking _her_ lips _._ The kiss is painful with intensity and unforgiving teeth; he nibbles at her lips with reckless abandon, biting down until they both taste blood.

Rey moans in her search for a breath, for air, her hands scrambling and scratching at all that stupid cloth on his back. She wishes she could wrap her legs around his waist, but her ankles are still cuffed.

Kylo hears her and frees her immediately by way of the Force. The metal is swatted onto the floor, and a thought flits quickly across Rey’s mind: cuff _him_ , yes, then punish him, victim turned torturer—

“You’re no Jedi,” Kylo mutters against the skin of her jawbone.

“I haven’t completed my training,” is her excuse. She runs fingers through all that luscious hair of his, so perfectly styled.

He nips her neck and runs his hands down her back and to her butt, grabbing two handfuls. “I could be the greatest teacher you’ve ever known,” he says before sticking his tongue out to lick her collarbone.

She rolls her hips and closes her eyes, envisioning the scroll again, and that new technique. _You’ve already shown me so much._ She pulls at the hood of his cape hard, forcing his head back and making him gasp.

Her eyes bore into his. The Force swells around her. She focuses on hearing his heartbeat, pounding, _ba dump, ba dump,_ his blood pulsing.

She directs all of that blood to his dick.

He keels immediately, and she lets go of his hood.

“Fffffuck, oh FUCK!” he yells, one of his hands going immediately to the front of his robes, palming desperately through the fabric.

She slaps his hand away. _“You will not touch yourself.”_

The movement of his hands still, his eyes truly glazing over.

It’s Rey’s turn to shove him onto his back now, to straddle him and attempt to divest him of his robes. The outfit is tricky, with too many fucking hidden clasps, and the fabric so fucking thick; halfway through unpants-ing him, she simply asks him to _“take off your clothes.”_

He makes short work of it, the noises coming out of his throat practically sobs. He wants pleasure, yes, he wants release _so, so bad, Rey, please._

She presses wet kisses to his cheeks and nose and thinks, _no, not yet. I want your dick swollen and ready for me._ She prepares herself by removing her own clothing swiftly, despite her trembling hands. It’s taking a toll on her to keep up her mind trick and the direction of so much of Kylo Ren’s blood flow to his cock, which, when she looks at it, is not a disappointment, FYI.

Engorged and standing at attention, twitching every few seconds, it’s a cock of substance. Big, indeed, and thick, oh yes, and long, almost frighteningly so. _How will that fit…?_ she wonders, her pussy self-lubricating at the idea of accommodating all nine inches of him.

She rubs her clit for a bit as she stares down at his naked body. He’s broad-shouldered and well-muscled just about everywhere.

She reads him through the bond, and he’s really not thinking about much other than his need to come, _please, please, please, oh, please_ and also that he’s never come with a girl on top of him and also, right, that’s right he’s a virgin and has only gone so far as to mouth a pretty blonde girl through her panties once, years ago, and he’s excited to finally experience pussy walls clenching around his dick—

 _That’s hot_ , Rey thinks. Jealousy also seeds in her mind at the idea of him with somebody else. _Who’s the girl?_

He can’t recall because he really can’t think of anything else right now but fuck, fuck, fucking, Rey, please. He shuts his eyes.

She wraps a hand, calloused from lightsaber training, around his dick. “You’ve really never done this before?”

“No,” he manages to gasp, thrusting upward in her hand and throwing his head back against a pillow. “Never.”

She tightens her grip around his cock and lets him do most of the work, a long slick of precum serving as lube. “Me neither,” she says. “I’m a virgin, too. But I touch myself.”

“I—I _know_ —“

“I used to touch myself so much. On Jakku.” Her free hand slides to the thatch of hair over her pussy. _It was so lonely._

 _I know that, too._ He’s thrusting harder now, and as Rey sinks deeper into her own indulgence, she forgets all about using the Force.

 _I come so hard when I think about you._ Her hips begin to hump the air in search of—something.

Something Kylo Ren knows, something Kylo Ren has; he ceases his own humping and grabs the backs of her knees, pulling her forward until her pussy lips meet the shaft of his cock.

Wetness. Rey grabs at the pillow on either side of Kylo’s head as she rubs her slit against his dick. He hasn’t even entered her yet, and fuck, it feels good to coat him, to mark him with all her slick cum.

“You want me to fuck you, Rey?” he asks, his voice deep and breathless. “I bet you want me to fuck you so good, huh?”

“ _Yeah,_ ” she exhales. “I do. I do.”

“Okay then.” He slaps her ass, and Rey jerks upward. Kylo re-positions himself, fitting his cockhead for entry into her tight hole. “I’m going to fuck you, Rey. I’m going to fuck you so hard.”

“Mhm. Do it,” she breathes. She can’t think of anything that could possibly be better than being absolutely _fucked_ by Kylo Ren right now, and so he waits no more, wastes no more time—

In one quick movement, he pushes into her, sheathing himself completely in her pussy until she’s literally _sitting on him,_ pussy lips to the skin of his balls. It pinches a little bit, Rey thinks, but the pain is an afterthought to the feeling of being so. Fucking. _Full._

“Fuck me…” She groans. Moves experimentally atop him, slightly unsure of what to do, but full of want all the same.

He has to audacity to smirk beneath her. “Whatever you wish.” And then he begins to thrust in earnest, his movements starting steady and then escalating to what can only be described as jackhammering _._

Rey holds on for dear life on top of him, her curious gaze darting to her belly, and would you look at that, oh shit, because she’s thin, always has been, she can literally see the outline of his cock as he hammers her, the flesh a few inches above her pussy rippling as he fucks in and out, in and out, and _fuck_ , is that not the best sight she’s ever seen?

 _I’m going to come,_ she thinks, when he pulls her in for a sloppy kiss. There’s drool coating her chin, and her orgasm builds and builds and _builds_ thinking about how dirty she is, _oh, yes, Rey, my filthy scavenger, my dirty girl—you like my cock in you, don’t you? You like it so much. You want me to fill you with my cum, yeah?_

She clenches. Everything, every muscle, clenches and tightens and shudders. Her back arches, her toes curl, and time stands still as a scream rips through her: orgasm, oh sweet orgasm, the sweetest she's ever known; falling apart around Kylo Ren’s big, fat cock.

 _“That’s right, baby_ ,” he murmurs, pistoning his hips and thrusting into her through her climax. As her body relaxes by the rush of so many hormones, as her cunt unclenches, he only speeds up. “Yeah, fuck, yeah, I’m going to come too—“

Rey is limp in his arms when he fills her with his seed; she barely registers the feeling, so gone is she, as he grunts with his release.

Cock still in her, he presses kisses to her closed eyes, to her sweat-slicked face. He rolls them over so that he is on top, and she is on her back.

She doesn’t respond. Her thoughts have been spent, along with whatever energy she may have had prior to this fuck.

So it’s no wonder that when Kylo Ren gathers the Force about him and whispers against the outer shell of her ear, “ _you will never fuck another man in your life”_ that she agrees.

“I will never fuck another man in my life.” She opens her eyes and wraps a hand around the back of his neck. “Only you.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally haven't updated in a year, sORRY. 'Spose I'd like to thank Rogue One for getting me back into Star Wars fandom-ry and also Beyonce, whose entire Lemonade album reminded me of this relationship for some reason.
> 
> Also, I have a playlist for this story. Check it out [ here](https://open.spotify.com/user/eevahnya/playlist/3Z0NiNq1eJmjXpc2PbK62W). :D


	6. post-coital tristesse/interlude

 

**POST-COITAL TRISTESSE**

1  : the feeling of sadness, anxiety, agitation or aggression after sexual intercourse

 

**INTERLUDE**

1 : a usually short simple play or dramatic entertainment

2 : an intervening or interruptive period, space, or event : interval  


 

 

* * *

 

  

When Rey wakes, she is facing the window, and it is night. Dark outside. She can see nothing but the outlines of branches and the larger leaves of jungle trees. Whatever moonlight that’s forced its way through the treetops is tinged blue, ominous.

Beautiful.

She stares out at the shrouded jungle for the longest time, breathing deeply in order to keep her mind blank, blank, _empty_ with all the training and meditation she can muster; she must delay the inevitable, yes, she must keep at bay the _awful_ confrontation with the facts, with what had happened between her and her actual, mortal enemy—a man who had once violated her mind so painfully and then had tried to kill her, quite literally, in a similarly blue, similarly ominous forest, once upon a time…

Well.

Not that long ago. More like three weeks ago. But still—a lot can happen in three weeks, like birth, death, growth, and regression.

And turning someone who you’d once considered (and still do?) a _murderer_ into your—your lover.

(Face it, Rey.)

Kylo Ren is sleeping with his back turned to her. She knows this without looking over (refusing to look over) because she can feel the heat of his broad back pressed against her own, narrow one.

He breathes slowly, and quietly, in his sleep.

And she could kill him right here, right now: a thought endorsed by a murmur, unidentifiable and cold, passing through the Force. 

_Do it._

Rey swallows the lump in her throat and squeezes her eyes shut.

This is not real, this is not true, this cannot be her reality.

But all the same, she knows, she _knows_ from the stickiness between her thighs, evidence that Kylo Ren had fertilized her womb, that she had _liked_ it, had _liked_ fucking him—beyond liked it, even. She had asked for it, she had craved it, she had _taken it for herself—_

_You have been corrupted, Rey._

And not by Kylo Ren, Rey knows.

She had absolutely taken his cum, his body, his fuck for herself.

And now the guilt of her decision is sinking in, heavy and sickening.

The feeling has Rey sitting up in bed, slowly so as not to exacerbate the dizziness that has overtaken her brain; she makes herself look, really look, at the source of her guilt (her pleasure).

Kylo Ren’s face in profile: eyes shut, plump lips slightly parted. A shadow of a beard creates contrast along his jawline, light and dark, and the vulnerability of his steady breathing and relative silence, so different from how he normally carries himself, has Rey thinking about Ben Solo and who he could’ve been before all…this _._

What did he do for fun?

What was his favorite color?

Did he have a favorite food?

Was he a picky eater? 

(Did he ever feel lonely?

Had he ever known hunger?)

Had he always been dark?

Did he once smile freely?

Had he known joy, unbound?

Rey stares and stares and stares at his moonlit profile, finding (as she had expected) no answers.

She turns back to the window and contemplates escape instead, the heady consideration of it making her heart race. Yes, yes, she can envision it now: taking off into that blue jungle, disregarding fauna (or flora) that has surely been _dying_ for the opportunity to sink its teeth into human flesh. If she could just run fast enough, she could probably find some giant leaf for cover, or some cavernous tree trunk where she could hide and wait for dawn, when she could search for his ship and just up and _leave—_

Rey pushes herself toward the end of the bed, maneuvering gently over Kylo’s immobile form. Her footfalls are soft when her feet touch the ground. She grabs her shirt and vest, her pants and boots, strewn everywhere, as she tiptoes to the opposite wall and feels around for something like a button or a handle. Finding nothing, she drops to her knees in search of a floor hatch door, one palm sweeping wildly across the wood.

Aha—a latch! She pulls upward and uncovers her ticket to freedom: a ladder.

Rey wastes no time with her escape. _May the Force be with me, may the Force be with me,_ she pleads, _please_ as she pads down the steps and ends up in another room, a recreation space of some sort, complete with couch and holoprojector.

She doesn’t linger for further examination, however, slipping into her clothing as quietly as possible. If only she had her lightsaber, she could guarantee some measure of self-defense in the jungle….

But no matter.

Squinting through the darkness, she spots a door, yes, _thank the Force!_

She pulls it open, her breath coming in short pants, as she feels for Kylo’s presence through their bond. Asleep is he still, and strangely enough he’s dreaming of her _—_ she can see her own face, serene, her eyes unblinking, staring into his—

Weird.

She wills him to _keep dreaming_ as she slips out the door and into the night. A narrow suspension bridge stretches out before her, connecting one enormous tree to another; she scrambles across, her hands gripping the rope railings tightly, her footsteps light should one of the wooden planks be loose.

_Please, please._

She searches for signs of Kylo Ren’s shuttle, but it’s too damned dark to really see and there are too many strange silhouettes in the jungle to be certain of anything at all.

_Doesn’t matter._

Once across, stepping onto the narrow platform circling a tree trunk, she finds no further bridges. There’s a set of stairs instead, winding down and around the tree, disappearing into the dense, leafy thicket of the jungle floor.

She swallows the dryness in her throat. She’s high up, of this she’s certain, and because she’s so high up (because this jungle is so foreign, so dim and _blue),_ fear begins to gnaw its way up her spine. Relentless.

Not that Rey’s ever been afraid of heights, nor of the dark, per se, but--the unknown? The unknown has hurt her before and will no doubt hurt her again, and again, and again, and who knows what's lurking on the jungle floor, ready to devour, hungry—

_Don’t be afraid, Rey._

Her head jerks to the sudden voice. Goosebumps prickle the skin on her arms. The voice is familiar and warm and male.

“Who’s there?” she whispers, glancing over her shoulder to ensure Kylo hadn’t followed her.

(He hadn’t.)

The voice continues. _Somebody who has something important to share._

 _Who's there?_ Rey asks again.

_Somebody who loves you as well._

A pressure rises behind her eyes, threatening emotion and tears and the breaking of a dam, which is inconvenient she thinks, because she can sense a shimmering in the humid night air, an apparition floating a few feet before her, fading in and out, the suggestion of robes dyed black or brown—

She presses the heels of her hands against her eyes. _Who are you?_

_He is susceptible, Rey. He is drawn to the Light more than ever._

_Who?_

_Ben._

_Why?_

_You know why._

She squints, and the apparition materializes a little stronger, a little more certainly. A robed man floats before her, a hood pulled over his face. She asks again, _Who are you?_

_It may seem impossible, but you can save him, even now._

“Father…?” The word slips off her tongue, hangs in the air. She clasps a hand over her mouth.

 _Not quite._ The floating figure removes his hood, and immediately Rey sees her own face reflected in his translucent features: the straight nose, the sharp arch of his brow, the high cut of his cheekbones.

“Grandfather.” She searches her feelings; she knows it to be true.

He nods, a faint smile touching his lips. _I’ve been meaning to meet you, Rey._

 _Have you really?_ She folds her arms across her chest, her eyes unable to tear away from this man who looks so, _so_ much like her father, once-removed. Her gaze is thirsty to drink him in. A wanton tear rolls down her cheek.

Rey bites her bottom lip. Eleven years she had waited on Jakku. Eleven years, going on _twelve,_ she had waited on Jakku, for her father, dad, _daddy_ , someone who’d once called her sweetheart and had cradled her to his chest; someone who’d left her in the care of a selfish _beast_ like Unkar Plutt, then who'd jetted away into the blackness of space—

_I’m sorry, Rey._

She looks away, to a random point in the darkness. _No. Don’t be. You weren’t the one who left me there._

_Still. It hurt you._

“Of course,” she mutters, the tears flowing freely now. She doesn’t bother wiping them. “But it’s too late to apologize for that.”

A silence falls between them. Amid the noises of the jungle (the rustling of leaves, the distant crunching of twigs) is the Force, like a heartbeat. _Ba dump. Ba dump._

_Don’t make the same mistake I did, Rey._

Her grandfather passes a hand through his hair.  

_Don't miss your chance to pull him back into the Light._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know! This was a decidedly unkinky chapter. Ah well. Please don't hate me. I just needed to present this little chunk of drama as separate from the next chapter: gluttony/second orgasm. Heh. 
> 
> Thanks for your continued support. [Lemme pimp muh playlist again.](https://open.spotify.com/user/eevahnya/playlist/3Z0NiNq1eJmjXpc2PbK62W) Also, pitch to me what kinda sexiness you'd like to see. What kinks!! I can't promise they'll all make it in, but I'm open to suggestions. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) I'm an equal opportunity smut writer.


	7. gluttony/second orgasm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all don’t even know how many versions of this chapter exist, lol. I’ve rewritten this a bajillion times, and I thiiiiiiink I like this? It’s just…so...kinky. IDEK, guys and gals. Just—this one will send me to hell for sure.
> 
> For image references by the way, when I mention a river and a waterfall, I want you to have [this beauty in mind.](https://ae01.alicdn.com/kf/HTB1.xOwKFXXXXbaXVXXq6xXFXXXl/Green-Rainforest-Waterfall-Nature-Art-Huge-canvas-Print-Poster-TXHOME-D2935.jpg)

**GLUTTONY**

1 :  excess in eating or drinking  
2 :  greedy or excessive indulgence <accused the nation of energy _gluttony_ >

 

**SECOND ORGASM**

1 : the third stage of the human sexual response cycle, characterized by intense or paroxysmal excitement; _especially_ **:**   an explosive discharge of neuromuscular tensions at the height of sexual arousal

2 :  the point during sexual activity when sexual pleasure is strongest, again   


 

 

* * *

 

 

She has a lot to ask her grandfather (twelve years’ worth of questions, why this, why that, just _why_ ), and though he doesn’t have all the answers, he has patience. All the patience in the galaxy. Their conversation lasts through the night.

When morning comes, she knows what she must do.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

For the first time in a long time, Kylo Ren wakes to peace.

Not to tears on his face, nor to nauseating self-loathing for his brain’s (seemingly) unlimited capacity to conjure up nightmares of all the worst things possible, of blood pooling on the ground, of sweat dripping into his eyes as he pulls his lightsaber out the back of an innocent man—

Peace. Quiet. Sunlight caresses the side of his face and the skin of his back, so warm and reassuring, like a mother’s voice telling him you’re okay, Ben. You’re okay, and I love you.

Always.

Lying on his stomach in a room in a treehouse, on a planet with so lush a legacy, he dwells on this for a moment. On the fact that the word “love” still exists in his vocabulary…that he can even think of his mother without wanting to cry, to think back on how she’d cradled him so, had kissed him, had kissed—

_Rey._

He jolts upright and glares at the empty spot on the bed beside him, but for all his glaring, no scavenger manifests, and Kylo seethes at himself, just _seethes_ at how _stupid_ he is to have fallen asleep, to have slept for so long. She’s likely to have taken off with his ship by now, and _fuck_ , he’ll have to beg the Supreme Leader to rescue him, won’t he? He’ll have to beg for forgiveness, please, I swear I was just following your orders to the dotted “i” and the crossed “t,” literally seducing her, okay, so please disregard my nakedness and general state of disarray and despair, that’s just who I am, who you made me be—

There’s really no time to put on his entire outfit, so he snatches a terrycloth bathrobe from one of the built-in closets and jams his arms through the sleeves. Terrycloth is _not_ a fabric he’d ever be caught dead wearing in public, what with its general fluffiness _—_ and jeez, why is this robe so fuckin’ short? _—_ but it’s black and has a hood, so it’ll do.

“Scavenger!” he yells as he clambers down the ladder to the recreation room. It’s a tad larger than the bedroom and also sports an enormous, single pane window that stretches from floor to ceiling; through this window, light streams, drenching the loveseat, the holoprojector, the wooden panels of the floor in an ethereal, yellow glow.

He scowls at this sight, so beautiful and soft, so the opposite of what his soul has become. He shuts his eyes to it in fact, focusing on finding the girl ( _his_ girl) through their bond.

_Rey._

He takes a few moments to breathe deeply, even, to sink into meditation.

_Rey._

_Rey._

He reaches through the Force, and he thinks about planets parsecs and parsecs away—

But he feels nothing through their connection. He can hardly feel her signature in the cosmic Force, can hardly sense whether she’s dead or alive…

Strange. Curious.

And alarming, of course.

He throws open the front door. Though she may already be off-moon (or half-eaten, who knows), he must see for his own eyes that his ship is gone (that she is dead); that she’d abandoned him, had left him here to rot (to mourn) all by himself, a fitting punishment for a worthless criminal—

He shakes his head, stepping onto the rope bridge, barefooted and all. The bridge trembles under his weight as he crosses, but he doesn’t grab onto the rails. Around him, the jungle hums with life: creatures from all corners of the forest chirp, yelp, and caw in a noisy chorus; emerald green leaves rustle on the morning breeze.

The crack, crackle, _crunch_ of branches echo on the forest floor.

Kylo looks down, over the railings. Nothing.

No one.

On the opposite platform, Kylo takes a breather, chiding himself for not putting on shoes, for not bringing his lightsaber. Not that he needs his weapon to fend for himself, of course, but shoes—shoes could have done a lot to protect him from splinters. One has already lodged itself into the sole of his left foot, and _fuck_ , that hurts.

He leans back against the tree trunk to pull it loose. Force, what is he even doing…? He reaches desperately through their bond again ( _Rey, where are you?_ ), but she’s gone somewhere, possibly far away, and he can sense it, he can feel it, he just _knows._

Sighing, a long-suffering and weary sound, he ignores the instinct to _turn back_ , to at least put on your boots before you go any further, _dumbass!,_ and makes his way down the stairs that wind around the tree trunk. It’s a long trek down, considering how tall the tree is; on the jungle floor, he treads as softly as possible across the muddy, moss-covered ground, taking care to avoid the raised tree roots that criss-cross one another in a fierce tango for space.

He closes his eyes and submerges himself in the Force again, pulsing as it is in this wilderness.

 _Rey. Rey…_ He can’t pinpoint her location exactly, but something, _something_ comes over him nonetheless—something mystical, something relentless: a need to walk to the river (yes, the river, _yes_ ), the one rushing noisily just a few paces away. Turning toward it, and needing to go to it, to the river, _yes_ , the river, Kylo trips over a thick root and scratches his knees on a stray piece of bark.

Steadying himself, he is overcome with something else. A memory of the river, of how familiar it is, one he’s visited many a time before…with Papa, in fact, young and grinning wide. They’d bathed in that river, Papa in his swimming trunks, the water rising just past his hips, and for little Ben, short and small and maybe five years old, the water had risen to his chin.

“Papa, lift me up!” little Ben had demanded, hands raised to the sky, to his god and idol.

Papa had picked him up by his armpits, pulling him into the air, away from the treachery of the river. “Here goes nothing, sailor!” Then he had dunked little Ben back into the cold water, soaking his son through and through, drenching his body, his hair, his bright eyes (but never letting go, not once; Ben secure in his arms).

Shrieking laughter, along with accusations of _Papa, why did you do that?!_

Eye to eye, then Papa pressing kisses to little Ben’s soft, pale cheeks. _Because you’re my little sailor, Ben._

Dodging Papa’s kisses, embarrassing, how embarrassing. _Stop it!_

Stop.

Kylo blinks, approaching the offending (the glorious, gorgeous) river. It’s brilliant up close, the rushing water constantly changing hues, undecided between deep green and dark blue. Kylo turns his head to the source of all this ferocious rushing: a waterfall—narrow and single-streamed, set between two rock formations that look like thighs spread open.

He swallows. Takes a tentative step into the water, and then another step, another step, another step, until the water rises up to his hips, and he’s a big boy now—the threat of being drenched head to toe is non-existent.

And the bed of the river is muddy and soft; he only finds traction for his feet against the pebbles that also line the river floor.

In a trance, then, he wades to the waterfall, yes, the _waterfall…_ something significant lies just behind that fall, he is sure of it. The Force is telling him that there is a cave—no, smaller than a cave… a grotto…and in that grotto, there is something that _will change your life forever, Ben_ …

Upstream, the water swells to the level of his belly, causing his robe to float in a sodden black halo around him. And now, close to the gushing of the waterfall (so loud, so _loud)_ he spots the hidden grotto. He starts toward it, splashing inelegantly in his race to see his future, what lies ahead, what will change him—

He pulls himself up, onto the rocks behind the fall, scraping his shins but giving not a damn. He can hear nothing but the roar of water in his ears, and he must blink to adjust to the relative darkness of this space. It’s not particularly high nor wide—it’s a single strip of slimy wet rock. And on the other end of it, on a patch of deep green moss, (he inhales sharply) is his scavenger.

_Rey._

Naked. And…sleeping?

He can’t tell, as he approaches her unmoving form. She’s lying on her side, her back to him, the steady rising and falling of her shoulders the only indication that she is alive.

“Rey.”

He drops to his knees beside her, placing a single hand on her arm, flipping her onto her back. There’s no sign of damage on her form, save for the red-violety love bites all over her neck and wait, what is that? A scratch or a scrape on her forehead. Kylo touches her face with gentle fingers, willing her to _wake, damn it—_

“Ben?”

Her voice is loud and clear, cutting through the noise of the waterfall. He watches her blink sleep from her eyes. He watches her gaze find his.

“Scavenger.” He helps her to a sitting position. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know.” Her eyes are shy, her expression muted as she replies. Her gaze darts from his face to the stone around them, and something like _this isn’t your girl_ flits across his mind.

Kylo ignores it. “Why are you naked?”

She blushes a becoming pink. His eyes trail from her face to her nipples, which are hard, likely from the cold. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“Don’t be.” She is shivering. He cradles her more close to his body.

“You don’t have to take care of me,” she breathes.

“I want to.”

“You should hate me.”

“I don’t.”

“I don’t either,” she says. “Hate you, that is.”

Oh, happy day, joyous day, wondrous _day!_ Something like affection courses through his veins. He presses kisses to her hair. “I don’t want you leaving my side again. You hear me?”

Rey nods. “I hear you.” She tilts her chin up, her eyes meeting his: her pupils are dilated to their utmost, her eyes practically pitch black.

Kylo loves it. Oh, does he love it. And because he loves it so much, her clearly _needing him_ , her _obeying_ _him_ , _yes,_ he presses his lips to hers and demands entry, immediately, into her mouth with his tongue. She gasps, compliant, and they suck on each other’s tongues, saliva coating every part of their lips and the sides of their mouths, for a long, long while.

Or: for as long as it takes for him to tear off his bathrobe and pull her backside flush against his front. He ruts his stiffening prick against her naked back as his big hands wander down her beautiful body, starting from her shoulders, down to her breasts. He massages two handful’s worth, his thumbs making sure to tweak her lovely, pink nipples until he can hear her moan.

“Yeah—mmmm…yes…” she hisses.

One hand reaches for her outer pussy lips; he runs two fingers along her hairy labia, spreading her wide, making her squirm, “Please, Ben, _please…”_

He can’t deny his dirty girl; he inserts one finger into her wet hole. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he groans, pushing in and pulling out, so slick. He nibbles the soft skin of her neck as he inserts a second finger.

She moans. “Yes, Ben…” One of her hands reaches back to entangle her fingers in his hair. “ _Mmmmmm,_ just like that. Yeah.”

“You like that?”

“ _Mmhmm_ , yes.” She twists in his grasp. “Rub my clit, daddy.”

What, oh what, oh _what_ …? That word, _daddy_ , echoes around the cave, so filthy, so _good—_ so naturally he does as he’s asked, his other hand snaking to her clitoris, two fingers taking their time to tickle that pleasure button, rubbing it in circles. Making her groan.

“Say that again,” he growls into her ear.

“Wh-What…?”

“Call me daddy,” he insists, lifting her butt and sliding his big, hard cock beneath her buttcheeks, slippery with her juices. She coats him. He loves it.

“Yes, daddy…o—of course, _daddy…”_

He brings his wet fingers to her lips. “Taste yourself, baby.”

She does so eagerly, her tongue swirling ‘round the pads of his fingers, sucking him clean.

_Fuck._

He pushes her forward, onto her knees, and damn it, he just can’t wait anymore, his cock is _bursting_ for release—he angles his big dick toward her warm, wet hole, and then he pushes in, slowly, slowly, filling her tight, juicy little cunt up with his cock.

She groans at the feel of him, sweaty strands of brown hair falling forward and sticking to her face. “Yeah, daddy. Fill me with your cum.”

“I will.” He pushes as deep as he can within her clenching pussy. And then he pulls out, almost entirely, before fucking back in. The head of his cock hits her cervix.

She wails. “Oh, baby. Oh, _Ben—!”_

He does it again: pulling almost entirely out. Fucking all the way back in. He sees stars doing so; when she squeezes herself around him, it’s bliss. “Who’s my cum slut?” he asks, bending over her and wrapping a hand around her neck. He squeezes her throat gently; he nips her earlobe. “Who’s going to make me a daddy for real, hm? Are you, baby girl?” He growls. “You gonna make me a daddy for real?”

“Y-Yeah…y-yeah, _yesssssss,”_ she groans as he starts to pound into her. The sloppy, wet sound of their fucking drowns out the waterfall and echoes around the cave, like a dream.

“You gonna take all my cum, Rey?” His hips slam into her bottom as he fucks her into the rocks. “You gonna lie there and take my cum?”

The scavenger buries her face in her arms. “Yes, daddy. Y-Yes, I am…” she sobs.

His hand snakes to her clit and rubs wildly there. Her pussy tightens, and she cries, whatever words may have been forming in her mouth transforming into animalistic sighs and growls, variations on, _ohhhhhhhhh_ and _mmmmmm_ and _ahhhhh, Bennnn, ffffffffffuuuuuck—_

 

 

 

The real Rey watches from the corner of the grotto, on a swath of rock hidden by a curtain of roots and moss. Her actual pussy is drenched, her slick juices rolling down her legs as she watches Kylo thrust his hard cock into thin air, humping nothing, panting loud.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

He is gorgeous and feral, Force _damn it._ His hair is voluminous (even though he’s _just_ woken up), and his back is so broad, so well-muscled.

His bare butt clenches with every thrust, and he could crush boulders with those thighs, oh baby, _fuck!_

And though he looks insane fucking nothing (or, an invisible version of her), he’s just so fucking _hot_ , and it’s taking every ounce of self-control within Rey to not wake him from his vision, to replace that invisible pussy he’s fucking with her own.

But grandfather’s warning (issued explicitly and without a shadow of a doubt) keeps ringing in her ears, that she really can’t let him fuck her anymore, so Rey sighs softly, her hand sliding past the waistband of her pants. She’s not wearing underwear, so it’s easy to access her sopping wet cunt and her engorged clit.

She rubs slow circles, watching Kylo’s fat, reddened cock hump the air. The sound of his dirty talk cuts through the noise of the water rushing down the fall, as if her ears were attuned to his filthy mouth and his filthy mouth alone.

“Take my cum, baby. Yeah…that’s it. Take daddy’s cum. Who’s a good girl…?”

His orgasm screws up his face. Makes him groan. Rey watches with wide eyes as he spills himself all over the rocks (he hadn’t even _touched_ himself, not once!), his hard cock twitching and shooting his milky, white seed onto the rocks more than two feet away. Oh fuck, that’s the sexiest thing she’s ever seen, and she wants him so, so bad…

Hypnotized, she approaches his panting, gasping form, now slumped forward on the stone. “Rey…Rey,” he sighs, his eyes fluttering closed.

Rey shoves her pants off and hurls the cloth away. She must, she must, she _has_ to straddle him, straddle her two legs around one of his big, powerful thighs.

She must press her wet pussy to this thigh, press hard enough to have her pulsing clit find friction against his hairy skin.

“Kylo,” she breathes, bouncing atop him, once, twice, then sliding forward and back against his leg. Her mouth finds the side of his face; she presses wet kisses to his temple.

He blinks up at her, confused. “Rey—“

“ _Kylo,_ ” she exhales, really rubbing her slick pussy, her throbbing clit against his thigh, her hips working her pace up from something like steady, steady, to slightly more furious, his body a veritable sextoy for her own personal use.

“Scavenger—“

“ _Kyloooooo,”_ she moans, leaning over him completely and humping his thigh like she were a bitch in heat and there were no tomorrow—just her need to cum, right here, right onto his skin, her desire to squirt onto his naked flesh giving her incentive to grind her hips, really just _grind_ hard and fast, fast, humping _faster,_ and he looks so gorgeous with his dazed, hazel eyes, his plump lips slightly parted, confused _—_

She screams with release above him, her pussy juices squirting suddenly all over his leg. He’s covered by her, in fact, completely drenched, her cum spraying all over his buttocks as well as she shudders and trembles and collapses atop him. She buries her face in his neck and breathes in his sweat and whispers, “You’re such a good boy”—words that make him shudder.

“Where did you come from?” he asks, voice low and hoarse. His expression is that of a shell-shocked prisoner of war: a sex soldier, used and abused by somebody much dirtier than he.

She pushes him onto his back and kisses her way up his throat, to his jaw. “I was here. Watching you.”

His brows draw together. “But I was just—“

“Fucking me? Not really.” She kisses the tip of long nose. “Force vision.”

He considers this…his having fucked nothing. “Huh.”

“I know.” She combs a long, sweaty strand of black hair from his eyes.

A pout touches his lips. “Well, that’s not fair.”

“Why ever not?”

“You got to fuck me, but I didn’t get to fuck you.”

Rey laughs. Grandfather’s warning be damned. She murmurs, “We can fuck for real, if you want.”

He wraps his large arms around her waist. Holds her tight against him. “I do want. Very much.”

“Just on one condition.” She looks him in the eye. “You can’t come in me.”

“But I want to,” he whines.

“Sorry. I can’t risk it.”

“Then, can I at least come in your mouth?”

She traces fingers over his lips. “We’ll see.”

They kiss and spend the rest of the afternoon fucking behind the waterfall.

(Rey does end up letting him come in her mouth—down her throat, in fact, making her choke and gasp around his fat cock. Tears well in her eyes.

He licks them right up.)

 

* * *

 

In the deepest reaches of the Force, there will be an awakening. Again.

The Supreme Leader is enthused.

Kylo Ren is almost done with his training.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fine, accuse me of having a daddy kink. BECAUSE I'LL ADMIT TO IT. 
> 
> Anyway, phew. Yes. Let me know what you think.


End file.
